


Ace of Spades

by Etoiles_Filantes



Series: of ice and fire [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Growing Up, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sexual Content, Various Mental Health Issues, Various SMH cameos, also, and because it's a check please fic there might even be a happy ending, as much as kent parson can, basically kent parson's life from when he first met jack and until the end of check please, but he is also a closeted gay man in one of the most homophobic sports leagues in america, gratuitous hockey scenes written by someone who has only ever watched hockey on tv, kent parson is a fucking asshole and may at some point realise that, or something like it, this is a pre-draft check please fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 276,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etoiles_Filantes/pseuds/Etoiles_Filantes
Summary: In the summer of 2006, Jack Zimmermann and Kent Parson were drafted onto the same QMJHL team.In 2009, Kent Parson went first in the NHL draft.In 2016, Jack Zimmermann came out.Theirs was not a love story, and neither is this. That, at least, is what they both say when asked.
Relationships: Alicia Zimmermann/Bob Zimmermann (background), Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Original Male Character(s)
Series: of ice and fire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710172
Comments: 195
Kudos: 111





	1. 2006/07

**Author's Note:**

> This was all started by me reading a quote from [this interview](https://www.aftonbladet.se/sportbladet/a/0ExAjg/guldhjalten-da-hade-jag-slutat-spela) with NHL goalie Anders Nilsson about how he didn't believe there were any gay players in the NHL because they all quit playing as teenagers. I am a major hockey fan, as well as an avid Check Please reader, and as I read the article around the same time as comic 3.26 was released, it got me thinking. At the time, I thought of Kent Parson merely as a bit of a dick, but seeing his character in this perspective, as a young gay man who didn't quit but made it to the top, made me want to explore him a bit more. It's been two years now, and this monster is finally done, save for a few editing details. Updates will be once a week, with a little luck, and I hope I have done him justice.
> 
> There will be warnings at the beginning of every chapter, and if I miss any, please do not hesitate to make me aware of it. In this, there is an outsider's description of a panic attack, some very light suicidal thoughts and subsequent ridicule thereof, and masturbation, if that's something that irks anyone. Also, as this is a story that takes place within the world of hockey, there will be quite a bit of homophobia - both external and internal -, misogyny, racism, and other fun stuff.
> 
> As is obvious, I am not Ngozi Ukazu, and I own nothing of Check Please, nor do I make any kind of money off this story. I'm just a hockey fan having fun.

She’d started crying about halfway through, quiet, half-choked sobs he clearly wasn’t supposed to notice but in the otherwise quiet of his bedroom were impossible to ignore Still, he tried, folded another shirt, placed it in the suitcase in front of them, pushed down the urge to clear his throat. She wouldn’t appreciate him reaching out to rub her shoulder. Or give her a half-hug. Or maybe she would, and he was being an asshole by not doing it.

With a bit-in sigh, Kent reached for another shirt – chequered, flannel, blue – and folded it, put it down, reached for another, also chequered, flannel, green. Almost as soon as it was down, Sarah Parson – Sarah Parson-Miller – reached out and rearranged it. Another time, and Kent would’ve snapped at her for it, or put it back the way it had been, just to spite her. But not this time. Not with the tears on her cheeks and on the edge of her cardigan – still cheap cotton despite her husband’s pay check, still soft blue.

They moved on to jeans in silence. In the kitchen, Ben was pulling out what sounded like every pot and pan in the house. Like his Ma wasn’t going to shoo him out as soon as they were done. Escape and cry in his arms.

She’d understood when they’d talked about it. Of course she had. He he’d been – they’d _both_ been told for years that he was going places. And those places would eventually be somewhere that wasn’t New York. Might not even be the US.

Rimouski. He’d need to learn how to pronounce that properly.

A small sound left his Ma’s lips, another sob, or a small laugh, or a cough. Kent didn’t look over.

When he was gone, Ben would give her whatever hugs and kisses she needed. Fuck Kent right out of her head.

To his right, in the safety and comfort of the bedroom he had known since he was six, his Ma laughed, a too-wet sound, and punched his shoulder. Kent snickered back, resisted the urge to bump his hip into hers, level now, wouldn’t be for long, and placed another pair of folded jeans into the suitcase.

”You really shouldn’t talk to your mother like that, y’know.”

”You saying I’m wrong?”

She laughed again, slightly drier this time. On the sleeves of her cardigan, the spots from her tears were drying. More would fall, he knew, they _both_ knew. The least they could do was pretend.

”I’m going to visit, y’know. I won’t just be _gone_.”

”I know. Won’t stop me missin’ ya, though.”

Won’t stop me missing you, too, Kent didn’t say, just folded a last pair of jeans. Moved on to caps.

The train left early next morning, early enough for Kent to feel it in his bones and in the air around them and on the shoulder of his Ma’s summer coat when she pulled him in for one last hug. Squeezed him so tight he feared she’d never let go, and the train would leave without him, and the world would end.

And he squeezed back, shoved his face into the junction between her neck and coat as subtly as he could, breathed in the scent of roses that had once been peaches. Before she met Ben, who was standing a kind few feet away from them, pretending to read the timetable.

He’d never admit it, not with a gun to his head, but sometimes he missed it so much he couldn’t breathe.

Between them, the dog tags they never spoke of dug painfully into his chest.

”Call me when you get there.”

”I will.”

”Don’t do anything stupid.”

”I won’t.”

”Don’t go knocking up any girls.”

”I’ll be careful.”

She kissed his cheek, once, twice, left a ghosting of feather-light lipstick behind. ”Good. I’ll miss ya, y’little shit.”

”I’ll miss ya, too.”

”No, you won’t,” she laughed. ”You’re gonna be so busy you’ll forget all about your old Ma.”

”’s not true.”

”Call me.”

”I will.”

They let each other go in stages, one place of contact at a time, pretending once more that she wasn’t crying and that the shoulder of her coat was dry.

”Bye,” he said, and she mouthed it back. At her side, her hand twitched, as if to reach out to him, pull him back, or to her husband to hold her close. It didn’t matter, and Kent stepped onto the train before he could find out. Lifted up his suitcases, two for a woman with two small kids looking up at him with wide eyes. Giving them one last smile, he sat down, glanced out at the platform where his Ma was holding her husband’s hand with one of hers, the other waving at her son. For a breath between a tug in his heart and waving back, he wondered if she was pregnant. She’d put on weight. Then again, she’d always been skinnier than him, and they both had to grow up at some point.

With a start that echoed in her body, the train set in motion, and the last he saw of his Ma was her husband’s arm coming around her, pulling her close as she stopped pretending she wasn’t crying. It was a brief glimpse, not for his eyes, but one he carefully stowed away in the back of his mind.

Ben was a good man, he knew. She’d be alright.

As they tore through New York, past everything Kent had known his entire life and everything he had never had a chance to see, because even sixteen years in New York weren’t enough, he swallowed. Blinked.

The Hudson River was to his right, would be for several hours, but eventually, it, too, would be gone. Everything he knew left behind, an entirely new world waiting to open its arms for him. Or swallow him whole.

There would be forests soon, trees and water and nothing of the bustling beehive of a city that Kent had been made and grown up in. Still, not a hint of worry showed itself on his face, only a slight jitter to his left leg and a clench in the pit of his stomach that he tried not to think too hard about. He was sixteen years old, sixteen years and almost four weeks. Nerves were something he had long learned not to show.

With a deep, slow breath, undetectable to anyone but himself, Kent closed his eyes.

By the time he opened them again, everything was new.

-/ \\-

9.04 PM. From ’Ma’

_You settled in alright?_

_Is the family nice?_

9.34 PM. To ’Ma’

_theyre great_

_we just got home_

_rimouski’s nice_

_kinda cold tho_

*

”You sure you don’t need a lift?”

Kent glanced up from his oatmeal, let a smile that felt too thin and too tired stretch across his face. Strange beds were never fun. And Canada smelled weird. ”I’m good, Bernie. Thanks, though.”

Bernard Bouchard sighed, opened his mouth to say something more but was cut off by his wife.

”We will embarrass him, cherie. Let him be cool.”

Kent smiled again, returned to his breakfast. Swallowed down the urge to accept the lift. Sylvie Bouchard was right, as he was beginning to suspect she always was. Some things, there was place for in hockey. Other things, there really, really weren’t, and Kent wasn’t about to push that one. Didn’t have the right.

With one last bite, he put his bowl in the sink, ruffled Claudine’s hair on the way out. Immediately regretted it. For a thirteen-year old girl, she sure hit hard.

-/ \\-

As he opened the door to the dressing room, a towel flew through air, smacked someone in the face, and Kent could have sighed in relief. That was one thing that would remain a constant, at least. Cramped, foul-smelling and, above all, _loud_. Had it not been for the colours lining the walls and the French ringing through the air, he could’ve easily been back home in New York.

”Qui es-tu?”

Kent turned, looked up. ”Sorry, I don’t speak French.”

The guy set his jaw. ”What is your name?”

”Kent Parson.”

A nod, a couple of glances sent their way. ”You’re a rookie, right? Then you’re over there. Go change, practice starts in ten minutes.”

Before he could do something as embarrassing as react, Kent walked to the appointed spot, began to change with his eyes firmly on the bag by his knees. From between the zip, a shark stared back, teeth bared, Jaws-style.

”Jared Chan.”

A hand appeared in his line of sight. Kent shook it instinctively, repeated his name.

The guy smiled. ”I know, dude. Your stats’re pretty fucking difficult to miss. Also” He lowered his voice, looked around conspirationally. ”I checked, and we’re the only American rookies on this team. I don’t know about you, but I know jack-shit about Canada.”

”Makes two of us,” Kent whispered back.

Chan’s grin widened. ”Awesome. Us against them?”

”You betcha.”

With a hard slap on Kent’s shoulder, Chan snapped his helmet shut and made his way towards the rink. Kent pulled on his jersey (new and soft and for the first time blue) and followed.

The rink was nicer than in New York. Larger, somehow. Shinier.

And already occupied.

To his right, Chan sucked in a breath. ”That’s Jack Zimmermann.”

“Looks like it,” Kent agreed, eyes trailing the lone figure on the ice, moving in and out of drills as easy as breathing.

Hockey royalty.

”Jack _fucking_ Zimmermann.”

”Uh-huh.”

Once beat a couple of NHL rookies in a shoot-out. While still in peewee.

”Why the fuck’s he on the ice already?”

”I’ve no fucking clue, man.”

It was almost a wonder they hadn’t met before. With their stats, their victories, they should’ve ended up in some camp or other together. If they’d been from the same country.

”I always heard he was a little weird,” Chan said. ”Y’know. Eccentric.”

 _Y’know_. ”Guy’s been hanging out with NHL legends all his life, some of the concussions might’ve rubbed off. And he’s rich. Rich people’re fucking weird.”

A weakness for a weakness. Kent straightened his back as Chan’s eyes automatically shifted to him, down his gear, noticed whatever scrappiness always seemed to linger no matter how new it was.

He kept his eyes forward. ”You think Bad Bob might show at our games?”

Chan’s eyes widened, flickered back onto the ice. ”Holy shit.”

”I know.”

”He was always at Zimmermann’s midget games.”

”I _know_.”

”And he played for the Océanics, too.”

As if on cue, they glanced towards the hallway. Rows of legends lining the walls, glossy photographs, former players. Stanley Cup champions nearest the entrance to the rink. They all walked in with Bad Bob Zimmermann’s eyes on their backs.

”I can’t believe we get to play with Bad Bob’s son,” Chan continued.

Kent leaned over. ”Are ya crying?”

”Fuck you!”

”Hey, I’m not judging! Just checking if I needed to getcha a tissue or something.”

Chan’s gloved punch hit his upper arm. Kent punched back.

”Alright, kids, time to get serious – Zimmermann!”

On the ice, the lone figure came to a halt. The guy shouting, taller than the rest, nose broken more than twice, continued in French. A couple of snickers died beneath his glare.

”Désolé,” Zimmermann muttered under his breath, stepped off the ice with as much as grace as he had shown on it, firmly ignoring the attention on him.

The shining star of Junior’s hockey, and the season hadn’t even started. Or just his fucking name.

”Right!” The guy from before clapped his hands. ”For the rookies, my name is Roy Gagnon, I am your captain. I see you have already banded together. Good, you will need that. Coach will be here soon, we will be ready, then, or I promise, you will regret it. Last to finish will have five suicides added in the end for every lap left!”

”Combien de - ”

”Tais-toi! Allez, suis-moi!”

With that, he stepped onto the ice, followed one by one.

”Watch it,” Kent snapped as Zimmermann stepped out in front of him. He was met with a glare – blue eyes, stubborn, pale even in the light of the rink – and nearly took a step back. _Nearly._.

Before he could say anything, though, Zimmermann was on the ice, blue eyes on the back of Gagnon’s jersey.

So much for Canadian politeness.

As soon as his own skates hit the ice, he was off, passing Zimmermann within seconds. After years of being the smallest guy on the team, what he lacked in size he’d learned to make up in speed. Hockey prodigy or not, Zimmermann didn’t have shit on him.

Keeping himself firmly behind Gagnon, just in case, Kent kept his breath steady, eyes darting back every so often. For a guy his size, Zimmermann was fast. Probably burning up all his energy, but Kent couldn’t care less. Not until Jack was at his side, blue eyes staring directly into his for the briefest of seconds, then gone as he put himself in the lead.

 _Motherfucker_.

With a grin beginning to creep onto his face, Kent sped up, too. The rink air was cold in his lungs, burning in a way that used to give him colds but now set his body on fire, a quiet flame that longed to burn everything in its wake.

Starting with Zimmermann.

The look on his face when Kent passed him for the second time was one he was going to treasure forever, the sound of his skates hitting harder and faster behind him also. By the time the first couple of laps were done, Kent was still in the lead, a small but firm distance between them. There was no way he could keep it up, not with practice afterwards, but there was no way in hell he was losing in a competition of speed. Not to that fucking snob.

”Quit measuring, and get your asses back here!”

With a swear under his breath, Kent skidded to a halt, heard - _felt_ Zimmermann do the same.

”Do you need to jerk each other off, too, or can we begin practice?” the same man asked, older, weight on his forearms on the boards. Gagnon was to his right, arms folded. Possible punishments incoming.

”We’re done,” Zimmermann said, voice barely above a whisper, but loud enough. There was no change in his expression. Kent made sure there wasn’t in his, either.

”Bien. Now, rookies to the right, veterans to the left. We are having a scrimmage, give me a sense of what you can do. Only the best will see games.”

If the coach glanced to somewhere right of Kent, no one said anything.

”You are fast, kid,” he told Kent as he skated past. ”We need that. But prove to me that you are more than just speed, yes? If that is all you have to give, you will be useless.”

With a nod, Kent went the last few feet, stood as far from Zimmermann as possible. Bent down.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he was going to show them all.

-/ \\-

“Pass, I said _pass_ , you fucking douchebag!”

Had any breath been left in Kent’s lungs, he would’ve laughed, at the words or the distinct redness of Channer’s face that always seemed to appear when he was angry.

As it was, he bit down on his mouth guard and set off, ignored the burn that seemed to fill his entire body and shifted the stick in his hands. Gagny was well on his way towards goal, too fucking close to be yelling and too fucking fast for anyone but the D-men already moving in.

Little to do. And still, he ran. Gagny would hit the goal soon, wouldn’t have time to wait, and Vixy was already down on his knees. If he got the puck, pushed it off a bit, Kent could sneak in from the side - 

\- and catch. A slightly off angle, puck barely caught at the edge of Vixy’s gloves, but just enough for Kent to switch his weight from one skate to the other, push the puck ahead in a half-circle and set off as soon as balance was restored.

Ahead, Channer had moved to centre ice, Dyer and Ander into defensive poses. The D-men on the other end weren’t anywhere near rushing back, but it would be impossible to make it to the goal before they did. Not with Cookie’s speed and Zimmermann’s precision.

Lucky for Kent, they were on each their side.

Counting down from three, Kent swept to the right inches from Channer’s stick, sent the puck flying between him and an oncoming Cookie, right onto Boomer’s path. It wouldn’t last long, not with Zimmermann turning on his heel and Marron closing in, but it would be enough.

The puck returned seconds later, just as planned. Pushing himself just a little harder, Kent swerved past a D-man – too far ahead, the fucking moron - and passed the puck again, moved to a safer spot, received.

Shot.

Between the pipes, Cheeky threw himself to one side, bounced the puck off the fingers of his left glove.

Kent bit the inside of his cheek, as much as his mouth guard would let him. Of course Cheeky got it, the fucker was left-handed. His own advantage, and he still fell for it.

Sweeping in from the side, close enough for Kent to feel the air parting for him, Zimmermann pushed the puck away from the goal, kept it by his own stick despite Cookie’s proximity.

Without wasting a breath, Kent stepped after him, reminded himself to shoot at Cheeky’s right side next time. If he was anything like Kent had been when he was younger, it would be under-utilised. Weak. And if he was anything like Kent was now, he would’ve trained it, and the move would be futile. Still, worth a try.

Catching up to Zimmermann wasn’t difficult, not with how much the guy had to weigh – _they’ll tear you to pieces, kid, quitting’s not a failure_ \- but not with a burn in Kent’s thighs he’d long learned to ignore. Centre ice was coming up, guys from both teams closing in, but the puck remained firmly by Zimmermann’s stick. Stealing it from under his nose would be difficult (impossible, a voice supplied in the back of Kent’s mind, quickly suppressed, _nothing’s impossible_ ), but a pass at this point would be swift, easy for Zimmermann and the best opening Kent would get for stealing it back.

If only the motherfucker would fucking pass.

In the end, he had Gagny to thank. Not that he ever would.

It barely counted as a hit, not a proper one, but it was enough to send Zimmermann staggering ever so slightly to the right, a look in his eyes that, had it been anyone else, Kent would’ve called panic. As it was, he turned on the edge of his skate, caught the puck from where it had slid just out of Zimmermann’s grasp, and sped off in the opposite direction. There were no sounds behind him save for skates and sticks hitting the ice, nothing out of the usual, nothing to suggest an incoming hit.

Not with his speed.

Between the pipes, Cheeky had gone down, the D-men assigned to him scrambling back into place, but it’d be too late. And even if it wasn’t, it would be. Kent would make sure it was. The air of the rink was cold in his lungs, burned his throat, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did, _nothing_ , save for the puck by his stick and the goal coming ever closer.

Three seconds, he had, before the D-men would be too close. Two. One - 

There was no horn. Of course there wasn’t, they were only practising, but something still rung in the back of Kent’s mind. Oxygen deprivation, perhaps.

“Fuck you, Parser,” Channer muttered, and Kent grinned back. Even if he’d had the air to talk, there was no need. No need at all.

“You cannot rest this long, game is continuing! Gagnon, back on bench! Dyer, take next face-off! And do not lose this time!”

With one last deep breath burning all the way down, Kent set off again, slower this time, there was still half an hour left, a short nod to Gagnon on the way. The middle finger returned was unsurprising. Possibly even deserved.

By the time practice ended, Kent’s lungs were burning again, almost as much as his thighs, and he was sure he was as flushed as a tomato. Nothing new, almost pleasant in its routine.

“Bro,” followed a hand on his shoulder, gone almost as quickly as it hit. “Didn’t you hear Dejardin? We’re done.”

“I’mma stay a little longer.”

Channer shook his head. “You’re as crazy as Zimmermann.”

Kent shrugged, shot another puck at the goal. Top bar, left corner, a clean hit just on the right side of the line on the ice. Within a second, another followed, a third, a fourth. In the corner of his eye, Dejardin was shaking his head, walking away. Allowed, then. Not just hockey princes.

Speaking of which … 

A brief glance over his shoulder showed the fucker on the opposite side of the rink, moving from one side to the other in front of the goal, a puck going in as if he had a timer. Like fucking clockwork.

With a huff, Kent shot in a fifth puck, a sixth, looked around for a seventh. Nothing. Resisting the urge to head to the dressing rooms after all, stretch, get home and sleep for a fucking week, Kent set off towards the goal to collect the pucks back up.

“When are you done?”

A sound that was not a gasp, it _wasn't_ , escaped Kent, mixed with a couple of pucks slipping from his glove back onto the ice. Pushing down the urge to groan, Kent turned around, pulled himself to his full height. “What the fuck, man?”

Zimmermann didn’t move, didn’t even fucking _frown_. “I was asking when you were - “

“Dude, one, don’t fucking sneak up on people like that, alright? It’s fucking rude. And second, what the - the fuck’re you talking about?”

Pale blue eyes stared back, as unmoving as the rest of him. Bluer than they looked in pictures. “I was asking when you were done with the rink. I need to practice.”

“Yeah, you and me both. I could just as well ask when you were done.”

“Within an hour,” came the swift reply.

“Cool. Me, too.”

Zimmermann ground his teeth. Finally _something_. Annoyance, anger. Constipation. Fucker was as easy to read as the Dostoyevskiy novel Kent had accidentally picked up in the eighth grade. “I need to _practice_.”

And as good at making Kent want to throw it at someone. “So do I. You wanna practice together or stay on your side of centre ice?”

For a second, it almost looked like Zimmermann was going to strike him. Or yell. Or break into song. Fucker was _expressionless_. Apart from his eyes, but Kent wasn’t going to look into those for too long.

“I’ll stay on my side.”

Before Kent could reply – _that didn’t hurt, did it?_ \- Zimmermann turned on his heel, skated back to his own goal. Slapped a puck into the net as if on second thought before settling into his previous position.

As the sound of methodic goals filled the air once more, Kent shrugged to himself, turned back to his own task.

Privileged motherfucker. Kent was going to fucking annihilate him.

-/ \\-

”Game one tomorrow, you nervous?”

Kent shrugged, fit the phone between his cheek and shoulder, pulled off his shirt as carefully as possible. ”I think we’ll be fine. We’ve got a good team of guys, and we’re all ready to go kick some ass.”

”Honey, I’m not the fucking media.”

Putting the shirt to his nose, Kent didn’t immediately recoil. Good for another day, then. ”Sorry, ma. Just practising.”

”I know, kid, but I’m your ma! It’s not like I’ll sell any of your important plays to the other team.”

Kent snickered. ”It’s not like you get them anyway.”

In New York, his Ma gasped. ”Hey, fuck you! I spent nineteen fucking hours pushing you out of me, and you repay me by being rude? Where’d I go wrong?”

“When Dad left,” Kent said, nearly biting his tongue. “I’m a fucking delight and you know it.”

There was a beat of silence. ”You are. Now, forgive your ol’ ma, who’re you guys playing again?”

Kent grinned, undid the buttons of his trousers. ”The Halifax Mooseheads.”

A scratchy laugh, loud like a hyena, one of the safest sounds Kent had ever known.

“Jesus ma, you try’na make me deaf?”

“Fuck you, kiddo.”

“Fuck you, too, I need my hearing.” He kicked off his trousers, folded them haphazardly and placed them in the cupboard. “Apparently we’ve got some kinda beef with ‘em.”

 _Like that thing with Princeton in the main story_ , Vixy had explained. Whatever the fuck that meant.

“Then you better kick their asses.”

Pulling the drawers shut, Kent allowed himself a smile. “I was planning on it.”

“Play nice, though, I don’t needja injured.”

“I’ll be careful, don’t worry. And I need to go to bed now, there’s practice tomorrow.”

“Kent, it’s nine PM.”

“Practice’s at six thirty. And I get there early.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, kid, y’never fucking change, do ya?”

“Do ya want me to?”

“No.” A smile, this time, warm in her voice, a kiss on his forehead she hadn’t given him since he was twelve. “Never fucking change, baby. Not for anyone.”

 _You, too_. “Sleep tight, ma.”

“I love you.”

“ … love you, too.”

*

The D-man was large, always fucking were, those _assholes_ , but nowhere near fast. Sucking in a quick breath, Kent took a large step to the right, sent the puck off in Gagny’s direction as he switched his weight back onto his left foot, continued forward. In the corner of his eye, Gagny received, hip-checked his own D-man. Kent didn’t have to look to see his eyes zoning in on the goal.

Between the pipes, the goalie moved down, followed the curve of Gagny’s stick exactly. Not a bad shot, slightly too high, slightly too late, slightly -

Too much to the fucking left.

Fucking right-handers.

Kent let out a groan of frustration as the puck was shot back, way too far back for the burn in his thighs and the clock ticking down above them.

The D-man from before sent him a grin on his way back, proudly displaying a gap where one of his bottom front teeth should’ve been. Kent made a face back, just as a whistle blew.

In front of the goal, too fucking close, a Moosehead was yelling at a ref, Dyer a few feet from him with his arms to the side and a broken stick by his feet.

Kent snickered.

The face-off sent the puck onto Ander’s stick where it stayed for exactly two seconds before a Moosehead had him hip-checked to the side, just long enough for another to snatch it up. In the blink of an eye, a turn of Kent’s right skate, the puck was dangerously close to the Océanics’ defensive zone, somehow still too far from both Beau and Boomer. Vixy had gone down, eyes flitting from one side to the other, to the three Mooseheads passing between them as they closed in.

There was no way to get there on time, no way to help. Kent dug his skate in just off the line, far enough away from the rest of the red-clad motherfuckers to bring the puck safely away once the attack was over.

Finally, the puck was passed one last time, one-timed towards the goal. Just beneath the glove, a safe goal on a goalie with lesser reflexes. Vixy, though, the beautiful motherfucker, was already throwing himself to one side, bouncing the puck neatly off his glove with only a slight twinge of pain. Nothing broken. Hopefully.

The puck barely touched the ice before the fight begun, three sticks, no, four, hitting each other inches from the line. Two Océanics, two Mooseheads. The third … standing back, ready to intercept.

Kent glanced at the fight again, at Vixy scrambling to get back up without losing a corner. He could move, get in front of the Moosehead, cut him off. He could stay, hope the one of the others won and sent it his way, or Zimmermann’s. Hope he’d be fast enough to get it if it went haywire, or to get it back if a Moosehead won out.

Or relax infinitesimally as Vixy managed to throw himself down on the puck, taking a stick to the side of his helmet and one to his chin in the process. A drop of blood hit the ice, a small cut, nothing serious, but a whistle still tore through the air.

“Nice shot,” Kent remarked on his way to the face-off. The Moosehead tightened his hold on his stick. “Think I can borrow your hands after the game, though? My billet Ma needs some more stones for her garden.”

”Va chier, tappete.”

Short fuse. Good to know.

Four minutes and fifty-two seconds of Kent plastering himself to the guy’s side, he finally snapped. The punch was dirty, from the hip, too low for a ref to see, almost too quick for Kent to dodge. It still graced his arm, enough for Kent to wince, but not enough for any muscle spasms.

A whistle blew.

Not low enough for a lineman.

Two minutes in the sin bin. Kent rubbed his arm. Fucking worth it.

”Wipe that face off, Parson,” a ref barked. ”This is a hockey game, not a fucking debate club.”

“Sorry,” he drawled back. Some guys were just too easy to rattle. No one could blame him for taking a little advantage of that.

Especially when Zimmermann finally got the puck in during the powerplay, right between the legs of the Moosehead goalie.

A fucking beaut of a goal, if Kent might say so. Not that he ever would out loud. Not where Zimmermann might hear.

3-2.

-/ \\-

The alcohol didn’t go down smoothly, not by a long fucking shot, but Kent still swallowed, grimaced at the burn in his throat. Might burn through his fucking stomach lining if he wasn’t careful.

”My cousin’s recipe,” Vixy said, thumping his back. ”Got it from some guy at a fancy prep school he meets in five years.”

“Dude, what the - “ Kent was cut off by a coughing fit, only worsened by the hand still coming down between his shoulder blades. Instead of asking any more, nothing good would ever come from that, he took another careful swig of whatever the fuck he was drinking.

”It’s good, right?”

”’s alright.”

With a snicker and a couple more slaps to his back, Vixy staggered off, left Kent alone by the kitchen counter. Or as alone as one could be in the middle of a hockey captain’s party in a hockey town. There had to be rules somewhere about the amount of people allowed together in one house. Fire hazards or some shit like that.

Not that it was any of Kent’s business. With a snicker of his own, he emptied the cup in his hand, grimacing slightly less. Probably killed off some nerve endings.

A moan made him look to the right. A guy and a girl on a couch-seat-thing, five fucking feet from Kent, getting to what looked like second base. Not a care in the fucking world about who might be looking.

That was alcohol, he supposed. Burned out the oxygen in the air for courage and lust and bodily fluids.

In the living room, inventory had been cleared to one side, occupied by more couples, and guys doing shots, and girls feeling up each other’s exposed thighs with other guys’ eyes on them. An impromptu dance floor was in full swing, one large mass of grinding and breathing and shirts being moved up, hands following in their wake.

A couple beers down and no one cared who was looking.

Kent fucking loved parties.

Snatching up a red cup from a nearby table – the owner far too occupied with a girl’s hair, not to mention the hand she had down his pants – he made his way to a relatively clean-looking corner. Different liquid, not quite as burning, not quite as sweet. Beer, probably.

A little off, just on the edge of the writhing mass, a guy was dancing on his own. In the dimmed lights, his shirt looked navy, maybe dark green, pulled taut as the muscles underneath rippled with every move and flick of his body. There was a thin line of sweat trailing down his neck, slowly soaking the neckline of his shirt, low enough to display the slightest hint of chest hair.

Averting his eyes, Kent placed the now empty cup back on a nearby table, only to see it get knocked over by a stray leg. There was a slight shake in his knees, a definite sign of being too much of a fucking lightweight.

He’d get there.

A staircase led to a new room, slightly less populated, slightly darker. The music quieted down as he descended, now only a dull bass flowing through the air, the conversation, his fucking _bones_.

A ping pong table was placed in the middle of the room, surrounded by half a dozen guys alternating between throwing, drinking, and glancing at the couple of girls huddled in a corner snickering to one another. Kent didn’t recognise any of them. Probably from one of the French high schools. Still.

”Who do I get to beat?”

One of the guys glanced up, gave Kent a quick once-over. “I would like to see you try.”

Challenge fucking accepted.

The guy was good, Kent was more than ready to admit that, but he was better. Loose wrists, he almost wanted to say. Same secret as was behind his goals, his precision, those quick wrist shots Vixy was never able to get. Loose fucking wrists.

The ping pong ball sailed through the air, landed neatly in the last bright red solo cup on the other side of the table. A loud whoop left Kent’s mouth, almost drowned out the other guy’s groan as he picked up the cup, brought it his lips. Moist-looking, plump, even in the harsh lighting of the basement. They’d probably taste like beer, maybe sweet, too, if he’d had some of the fruity drinks the girls were sipping. If he’d kissed one of them, let her hands tangle in his hair and her tongue swipe across his lower lip, almost pink in the -

Kent swallowed, pulled up a smirk. ”Nice game, bro. Try a little harder next time, yeah?”

A middle finger met him as the cup was slammed down on the table. Kent returned the gesture before making his way back up the stairs, throwing a quick glance at the girls in the corner. A smirk.

”You leaving already?” Channer asked in the hall, face flushed, eyes glazed. “It’s barely midnight!”

Kent shrugged. “My billet family’s, like, super fucking strict. Can’t break the rules this early.”

Channer snorted. ”You ever stop strategising and have some fucking fun?”

”Fuck off.”

When the front door slammed shut, Channer was still laughing.

Kent zipped up his jacket. Better a fucking bore than a fucking fag.

-/ \\-

Suppressing a shiver, Kent pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself. Bounced his leg. Glanced to his left where Zimmermann was staring out at the landscape trickling by as if it had personally offended him. It had been two hours, two _fucking_ hours on their way to Saint John, and the guy had said all of two words. None of which to Kent. Apparently just glaring when you wanted something was how hockey royalty communicated.

Fucking prick.

Two hours, and Kent was ready to fucking throttle someone. Preferably Zimmermann, if he didn’t fucking stop pulling the zip on his bag back and forth like a fucking _child_.

Kent took a deep breath. Stilled his leg. Focused on Channer.

” … and I swear, her tits were _gone_. It was like a fucking magic trick, ‘xcept disappointing as hell!”

Still better company than Zimmermann. ”Didja still do her?”

”Of course, who do you think I am? Tits or no tits, she was still hot!”

”Channer’d do anyone,” Beau chipped in.

”Yeah, not anyone. I’m not a fucking slut.”

”You’re kind of a slut,” Kent said.

”Guys can’t be sluts,” Marron disagreed.

“They still need to have some fucking standards,” Tremmer said. ”Or it’s just pathetic.”

”Nice excuse, dude. Is that what you tell yourself when you don’t get any?”

”Hey, fuck you! I get plenty!”

”Oh yeah, when?”

”Can it, back there!” Gagny yelled. Kent rolled his eyes, let his head fall back. It was going to be a long fucking ride.

To his left, Zimmermann was still looking out at the landscape that had somehow insulted his mother. There was a set to his jaw, like he was ready to pounce or something. Curled fists.

Kent closed his eyes and inhaled. A nap was beginning to sound like a fucking delight.

*

Consciousness came with brutality as something – warm, curling, fingers, a hand? - pulled him upwards by the hair. A yelp of pain escaped his lips, swiftly subdued by something malleable and rough – a bag? - being pulled over his head.

For a moment, he knew with clarity that this was it, this was how he was going to die. The team had found out, weighed their options and found that they didn’t want a fucking queer on the ice with them. Might as well get it done in the middle of the night on a roadie. No one was going to recognise his body in Saint fucking John, no one’d hear him scream - 

”Get the fuck up, rookies, we’re on a tight ship here!”

A shaky exhale left Kent’s body. Of course they didn’t know. They didn’t know.

”Tight ship’s not a saying,” Channer responded from somewhere to his left, his voice muffled.

”Shut up, Américain! Let’s fucking go!”

”And be quiet, if you don’t want coach to castrate us all,” a second voice piped in. Vixy. ”You’ll need that shit in a couple of years.”

”What the actual fuck, man, just take the fucking rookie.”

Strong hands grasped at Kent’s biceps, hauled him to his feet. The bed frame hit his shin, but Kent bit down any sounds as he was pushed forward, one hand still keeping him from falling. A warm hand, sending fire shooting through Kent’s body despite the cold air in the hotel room and the fact that _he had a fucking bag over his head_.

After a short walk, of which stairs were involved, more than a little yelling, they were hit by a sudden onslaught of cold. Outside, then.

”Jesus Christ, guys, you could at least have let us wear shoes,” Channer complained from somewhere in front of him.

”Shut it. This is a haze, not a fucking picnic.” Gagny. The truth, then.

They had no fucking clue.

The pavement was cold beneath his feet, stinging with small rocks, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Eventually, there was the sound of a door opening, and a wave of warmth. The rink, if Kent had to guess. Where else would you haze a fucking hockey team.

Despite the cold, the pain, the corner of Kent’s mouth flickered upwards. If they were in the rink, they’d gone down a main road in Saint John. He could only imagine what had gone through the heads of other late-night pedestrians at the sight of a bunch of teenagers, some in pyjamas and with bags on their heads. Perhaps hazing was a common occurrence in Saint John. It wasn’t like Kent had ever been before.

When the bag was finally pulled off, he fought down the urge to gasp at the sudden cold, the sharp, artificial light. And he was right, the rink.

And he was fucked, because next to him – again, what was _up_ with that - was Jack _fucking_ Zimmermann, all tousled hair and confused, blue eyes and shirtless and red flannel bottoms that did nothing to cover up -

Kent swallowed, moved his eyes up. Thanked whatever deity there might not be that they were in an ice rink. Saved him a pretty big problem on his hands, to add on top of fucking hazing. Or, not that big, perhaps. And not in his hands. Times and places and all that shit.

If the guy wasn’t so much of a fucking asshole, and Kent less of a fucking masochist, he’d try to remember. Good thing they weren’t.

A few guys over – because there were more of them, of course there was - one of the Québécois rookies said something Kent didn’t understand.

”Sure, when you stop complaining!” Gagny yelled, far too loud for the otherwise quiet rink. ”And you know the rules, speak fucking English!”

The rookie muttered something more in French, earned himself a hit over the head.

”Vixy, bière!”

The goalie emerged at his side with a sixpack. The two nodded at each other before turning back to the assembled Océanics. Gagny’s eyes narrowed. ”Get them.”

Before anyone could move – too tired, too fucking cold - strong arms came around Kent’s, pushed his own back and forced him forwards towards the ice. The glass had been removed, somehow, making space for the rookies to one by one be pushed to sit on top of the railings.

Kent spared a glance to his right, to Channer looking equally confused. Before he could move his head to the left, a strong hand came down on his chest, pushed him backwards.

If he screamed, no one told him. It was impossible to hear above the others and the rush of adrenaline surging through his body in the split-second before strong hands came to clasp at his ankles. There was a pain in his thighs where the railing dug in, enough to make him clench his teeth, but not enough for another sound.

No fear, no weakness. They wouldn’t take him alive.

”Aaaand crunch motherfuckers, unless you want a fucking concussion!”

As if they’d let that happen, Kent just had time to think before the grasp on his ankles slackened, and he fell another couple of inches. Just in time, as he instinctively lifted his upper body, the hands returned, the pain now mid-calf. He’d be lucky if he walked away with bruises only.

Great fucking idea, injuring the rookies. Would make for some good future games.

Someone patted his knee. When he looked up, Vixy solemnly handed him a can of beer. Cheap, even. Motherfuckers.

”First to finish without hitting the ice or spilling wins!” Gagny yelled, far too cheerful for one in the fucking morning. ”If anyone falls or spills, I’ve got a fuckton of punishments ready for you!”

Well. Kent glanced at the can in his hand. When in Rome.

He didn’t win, but he also didn’t lose. By the end, his abdomen was burning from the strain, a burn just on the wrong side of painful, he’d choked more than a couple times, miraculously without spilling anything, and the pain in his calves had become a numbness he was going to worry about later. After the last swallow of beer, he took immense pleasure in throwing the can at the D-man holding him. Even if he missed.

Without a warning, the hands around his ankles let loose, and he fell. The ice against his back burned, but Kent was so cold it hardly mattered. It hadn’t been a hard fall, but he still stuck up his middle finger at the D-man before accepting the outstretched hand of help. A quick glance down once he was safe on his feet revealed a slight red line on the back of each pant leg. He’d need to get some bandages, but it wouldn’t kill him.

”That was it, right?” Channer asked, swaying – or shivering – slightly on the safe side of the railing.

Gagny smiled, a large toothy grin that made a shiver run down Kent’s spine. ”Oh no. It’s time for punishments.” His eyes glinted. Out of the corner of Kent’s eye, Channer grew pale.

”What about the rest of us?” Kent asked. ”Can we go back to bed?”

A dismissive wave of Gagny’s hand answered. ”Yes, fuck off. We don’t care about you anymore.”

Mouthing a quick ‘bye’ to Channer, Kent walked off. Punishments were punishments, and Gagny probably wasn’t going to kill them. Or maim them. Probably.

The hotel couldn’t be far off, they hadn’t walked for long, and he was already too cold to care about the night air. He could probably find some of the others, Cookie had a great sense of direction - 

A figure just inside one of the side doors halted Kent’s thoughts. At first, he almost didn’t recognise him as human. No one should be able to make himself that small – especially not a guy over six feet. But there he was, Jack Zimmermann, still shirtless, hair still tousled, but with his head between his knees and breathing so quickly Kent thought he was going to pass out.

The first feeling that swept through Kent at the sight was anger. He was cold, he was tired, he’d just drank a can of beer on a half-empty stomach, it was too fucking early to deal with this shit. Or too late. There were older guys inside the rink, busy, yes, but still captains and alternates and fucking _Vixy_.

On the other hand, Kent wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Zimmermann interact with any of them outside of the rink. Or even in the dressing room. And he knew what they said about him, Kent included, when he wasn’t there. Or didn’t look like he was listening.

With a sigh and a mental kick at his own too-big heart, Kent cleared the handful of feet between them, came to stand a good two from Zimmermann, who still hasn’t noticed him. His breathing was louder up close, far scarier than it had been before. Not that Kent would ever admit that.

”Hey man,” he whispered, voice almost gone from the cold. When Zimmermann still didn’t notice him, he tried again, a little louder. “Hey, what’s happening? Do you need me to get someone?”

Something that might have been a sob had more oxygen been available made its way past Zimmermann’s lips, rested in the air between them. The fear already prickling beneath Kent’s skin quickened its pace. Without thinking, he moved closer, placed a hand on a shaking forearm.

With another broken sound, Zimmermann flinched away, moved his hands to his hair where they began pulling in a way that had to be painful.

Whatever the fuck was happening, Kent was so not equipped to deal with it.

”Okay, man,” he tried, too scared to care about the shake in his voice. ”You’ve got to breathe with me. In … and out. Yeah? Try to work with me here, come on. Breathe – try to follow me. Yeah, follow me, in … and out.”

Slowly, painfully so, the wet sounds escaping Zimmermann began to match his words, his own breaths. Kent’s knees had started to tremble but Zimmermann’s eyes were scrunched up in concentration, and he feared that, if he moved, the whole thing would start over, the progress crumble between them.

”You’re doing great,” Kent continued, tried to remember what he used to say to the kids he used to babysit when they were upset. Or scared. ”Think we can loosen that grip now?”

No answer. Tentatively, ready to pull back at any moment, he put his own hands on Zimmermann’s, firmly ignored the tremble in them both, and pried the fingers loose from his hair one by one. ”You can hold my hands instead. If it helps.”

Zimmermann’s grip was tight, just on the wrong side of painful, but Kent could skate through pain if he needed to, and so he kept talking, kept matching his own breaths to Zimmermann’s until they began evening out to something that almost sounded healthy. Less like a drowning man gasping for breath. Zimmermann’s eyes were shut tight, and all of his muscles seemed to have contracted, but he was focused on Kent, and he was breathing. So far, so good.

”You’re doing great,” Kent repeated. ”Think you can breathe on your own now?”

A nod, a loosening of the grip on Kent’s hands. Eventually, after another long few seconds of breathing, Zimmermann opened his eyes, pale and blue like always, surrounded by lines of red.

 _Fuck_.

“What happened there?” Kent asked against his own will. Unsure of if he even wanted an answer.

Whatever he wished, none came. Instead, Zimmermann shook his head, winced, tried to stand. His legs were shaking so hard Kent had to help him, but eventually they rose. The skin beneath Kent’s hands was warm, almost distractingly so, but his eyes had glazed over, and Kent wasn’t sure he even fully recognised him.

”Wanna head back to the hotel?”

Another second, another breath, and finally, a nod. Letting out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding, Kent debated whether or not he should let go of Zimmermann, ultimately deciding against it. The guy looked like he’d keel right over, and Kent knew he wasn’t going to be able to carry him.

Somehow, miraculously so, they found the hotel without getting lost. Straight up the fucking road, and Kent vaguely remembered Dejarding telling them the night before. It was warm when they entered, like walking into fire or a fucking volcano, but Kent couldn’t care less, and neither, it seemed, could Zimmermann.

“What room’re you in?” Kent asked, once they had left the eerily-deserted reception.

Zimmermann opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

”’s okay, just let me know where to stop. You remembered where, right?”

A small nod met him, blue eyes glued to the floor.

“Awesome.”

The room was right next to Kent’s, because of fucking course it was, and for a second, Kent debated whether or not to just haul Zimmermann into his room, tuck him into Channer’s bed and hope the fucker didn’t stir up too much fuss when he finally returned from the rink. Make sure no one stopped breathing while they slept.

In the end, he dumped Zimmermann on the bed nearest the door in his own room, kept his eyes firmly off the swell of his backside.

”Will you be okay on your own?”

No answer. Kent looked around the room once, then tip-toed out and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

His own room was blessedly empty, save for the bags strewn haphazardly on the floor the afternoon before. Kent managed to stumble over only one on his way to his bed, counted it as a blessing. He was still shaking, from the cold or something else he didn’t want to think too hard about, and definitely not something he was going to examine. Same as he wasn’t going to think about what the fuck had just happened. It wasn’t any of his fucking business if something was wrong with Zimmermann. He wasn’t his fucking responsibility.

Almost an hour passed before Channer stumbled into their room, drunk as a horse and way too fucking loud for 3 am. Kent pulled his pillow over his head, prayed sleep would come soon, drown out any and all memories of pale faces and warm skin and hands tearing at tousled hair.

*

At breakfast the next morning, half the team looked hungover, another half still drunk. The coaches seemed not to notice, or at least pretended to. Perhaps Dejardin’s words had been meant as a help. Or permission.

Zimmermann was sitting alone in a corner, poking at a bowl of oatmeal Their eyes met, but Zimmermann quickly looked away. When Kent went up to him later, he walked out of the room. When he tried to speak to him in the dressing room, he was ignored.

Well, you’re fucking welcome, Kent thought, pulled on his jersey.

Not his business, he reminded himself. Not his fucking responsibility.

-/ \\-

December arrived in an array of games, stressed holiday calls from his ma, and midterms he was in no way qualified to take. It took a failed English test and a red-faced teacher for him to finally devote his already sparse free time practice to studying. For two weeks, he barely spoke to a single person outside of practice and school. He ate in his room with an open textbook in front of him. By day eight, Bernie was starting to send him concerned looks.

Zimmermann still didn’t acknowledge his presence. Kent didn’t care.

In the end, he passed by the fly of his pants. His English teacher still looked at him like he would one day bring her untimely demise. That was her headache. Kent had his own.

They won their games. Most of them. In practice, Vixy’s glares were turning harder which was either the result of his fucking future vision or whatever, or the fact that he could barely stop Kent’s pucks anymore. Cheeky had already given up.

“Fucking main story moves,” Vixy muttered as Kent skated by. He gave him a shit-eating grin in return, only just keeping himself from stumbling over the guy’s helmet. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a white jersey skate past, the single white number almost taunting.

Not staying late. Weird.

A small smile tugged in the corner of Kent’s mouth. Not even hockey princes were immune to exhaustion.

“I hate you sometimes, you know that, right?” Channer asked in the dressing room, words half-muffled by his jersey.

“Trust me, feeling’s mutual,” Kent replied, dodged the frankly disgusting garment promptly thrown at his head.

“You and Zimmermann. Fucking assholes, the both of you.”

Kent glanced to the other side of the dressing room. Wide shoulders, a slight pudginess at the waist. Thought-stopping ass. He looked away. “Come on, man, you score plenty. They just don’t give NHL contracts for pussy.”

“You’d know.”

Unlike Kent, Channer wasn’t fast enough to dodge a jersey thrown to his face. “Fuck you, I get plenty.”

“Right hand doesn’t count, Parser,” Cookie chimed in.

“He’s left-handed,” Cheeky corrected.

“Left hand doesn’t count, either.”

“Fuck each and every one of you,” Kent said, pointed to them all before walking backwards into the shower room, arms spread wide. “I just don’t need to rely on puck bunnies.”

When he emerged – two minutes later, two more minutes of staring into the tile and _nowhere else_ \- the topic had changed, and Zimmermann was gone. With a bite to the tongue, not enough to draw blood, enough to make him think of something less stupid, Kent dried himself off. He was exhausted, always was this close to the a break. Nothing new.

The shark of the Océanic logo disappeared past a swift pull of the zip, hidden until he was going on the ice again, left with whatever issues it held. With a nod to the remaining couple of guys, Kent threw the bag over his shoulder and walked out. He’d need to figure out a Christmas present to his Ma some time soon. A gift card for makeup, or something. A haircut.

With something that was almost a smile playing at his lips, Kent turned a corner and promptly walked into what felt like a brick wall. Stumbling back, forcing his hand not to touch his nose – not broken, he knew what that felt like, don’t make them think you’re a – Kent opened his mouth to apologise. The words, however, were stuck in his throat as a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, held him in place. He hadn’t even realised he was about to fall. Glancing up, his eyes met a pair of warm brown ones, laughter lines clear in the corners.

“Woah there,” Bad Bob Zimmermann, Canadian hockey legend extraordinaire, said. His hands were warm, almost burning through to Kent’s skin despite the layers between. “Careful. Can’t have our top scorer out with a concussion this early in the season, eh?”

He’s even better looking up close, Kent thought.

Holy fucking shit, Kent thought.

“Hey-lo,” Kent’s mouth, for some godforsaken reason, decided to say.

That exact moment, because someone up above Kent had sworn off believing in for good when he was fourteen clearly took pleasure in his misery, Jack Zimmermann decided to enter, all shaggy hair and too-serious eyes.

”Papa, a-tu - ” His eyes landed on Kent, and he cut himself off, glanced towards his father who was still radiating amusement.

They looked even more alike in real life.

”Jack, I was just talking to Kent here – is it okay if I call you Kent? - you kids need to take better care of yourselves, we can’t have you getting injured left to right,” four-time Stanley Cup champion Bad Bob _fucking_ Zimmermann, said.

”That’s nice, papa.” At his sides, Jack Zimmermann’s arms twitched, like he wanted to fold them in front of his chest. Or punch someone. Kent, probably.

” - and don’t even get me started on your nutrition,” Bad Bob Zimmermann, holder of the fourth-longest point streak in NHL history, continued. ”You need good food to keep you going, not just all those protein shakes and kale smoothies. Real food!”

If he wasn’t already sure he was hallucinating, the pointed look Bad Bob Zimmermann, husband of legendary actress Alicia Zimmermann, née Bloom, shot his son was probably the final clue. He’d already gone home, passed out in the bath. Would probably dead soon. That, or someone had hit him in the head with a puck during practice. Probably Jack Zimmermann.

”Papa, I’m sure Parser has somewhere to be.”

Definitely dead. Or passed out. Jack Zimmermann didn’t call him Parser. Jack Zimmermann didn’t use hockey nicknames.

Bad Bob Zimmermann, Kent’s childhood goals personalised, nodded. ”Of course.” He turned to Kent. ”Why don’t you come by for dinner some day? Get some real food.”

Jack Zimmermann’s face twisted. It was almost adorable. Kent bit his tongue again.

”Hanukkah is coming up. That’s the perfect occasion, non?” Bad Bob Zimmermann, who might also have taken a few more pucks to the head than was strictly healthy during his career, grinned.

”Um,” Kent started, eloquent as always. ”I’m not Jewish?”

Bad Bob Zimmermann, fifty percent responsible for his son’s unfairly good looks, laughed. ”Jack’s Maman isn’t either. And most of out guests. You’ll fit right in, I promise.”

Kent opened his mouth, to say no, to throw up, to sing the national anthem, but in the corner of his eye, Jack Zimmermann was looking at him as if trying to make a ’no’ come out of his mouth from force of will alone.

In the midst of the surreality, the absolute shit-show Kent was somehow taking part in, something like resolution settled in his stomach. That, or constipation. Looking Jack Zimmermann straight in the eye, Kent smiled, wide and earnest. ”Sure, mr. Z. I would love to.”

A look of utter betrayal flashed over Jack Zimmermann’s face. Kent wished he had a camera.

”Magnifique! Jack will give you the details later. Now, I wouldn’t want to keep you anymore. It was nice finally meeting you, Kent. We’ll see you very soon!” Bad Bob Zimmermann, whom Kent had wanted to marry when he was five and didn’t know what marriage meant, winked and nudged his son towards the exit of the rink.

”See ya, mr. Z. And Jack,” Kent couldn’t help but add.

If looks could kill, Kent would’ve dug his own icy grave long ago.

Fucking _worth_ it. Even if it meant ridiculing himself in front of his childhood hero.

Kent would burn that bridge when he got to it.

*

Glancing down at the map in his hands, Kent bit his lip. Looked back up at the house – no, the _manor_ \- behind the gates. From where he was standing, too close to the gates, too close to the street, the number Jack Zimmermann had texted him in the middle of the night – no name, no greeting – was visible three different places. Right house, then. Manor. Had to be.

Before he could do something as stupid as turn on his heel and march back to the Bouchards’ house and hide, or something even stupider and ring the mechanical contraption next to the large, green 317, the front door opened. Someone walked out, fumbled a bit with something near a window. A second later, the gate let out a groan and opened. For a second, Kent stared at it, then, as the figure began walking towards him, he took a tentative step inside, followed by one more confident. He had the right house. He was there for a reason. Fake it ‘til you make it.

“Maman didn’t want you to freeze to death,” Jack Zimmermann said, fists only slightly relaxed at his sides. “Come in.”

With that, he turned, walked back towards the house.

“It was nice of you to invite me,” Kent said, pretended he didn’t need to power walk to keep up.

“Papa likes guests.”

 _And I do not_.

“Yeah, he seems like a pretty social guy.”

 _Unlike you_.

Without another word, Jack Zimmermann opened the front door, held it open. Manners, at least. “Take off your shoes, please. It’ll snow again soon.”

An odd choice of words, but Kent wasn’t one to judge. Verbally. And even if he was, the words wouldn’t have come.

If he’d had trouble with the outside view of the manor, the inside was about enough to shut him up forever. The small hall where Jack Zimmermann hung up his coat and left his boots was a pristine cream colour – and _fuck_ , how could a colour look expensive? - adorned with what looked like gold details. Paint, had to be, but Kent wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t sure the answer wouldn’t just finish him off. Through a pair of double doors, he caught a glimpse of a carpet-clad staircase swirling its way up.

 _Fucking rich people_.

”Papa’s in the kitchen. Maman and uncle Luc are in the living room.”

Kent nodded, carefully placed his boots next to the perfectly chaotic pile holding Jack’s. “Thanks.”

Jack Zimmermann folded his arms in front of his chest. The move made the navy jumper stretch across his biceps, too perfectly not to be fitted. Kent didn’t see if his jeans were, too. He didn’t hate himself that much.

Had it been anyone else, Kent would’ve found something funny to say, or do, something to break the awkward silence stretching between them. If he’d known the guy at all.

”Kent!”

Gratefulness almost showing on his face, Kent turned to where the third king of hockey was standing in one of the double doors, a large grin on his face.

”I’m glad you could make it. And indoors, too.”

“Thank you for inviting me, mr. Z - “ Kent trailed off.

Bad Bob raised an eyebrow and placed a hand on his waist, just on the edge of the bright red apron he was wearing. The words ’We whisk you a Merry Christmas’ were going to haunt Kent’s dreams forever. ”You okay, kid? Cold got your tongue?”

At his side, Jack Zimmermann let out something that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Kent grinned. “Yeah, sorry. Spaced out for a moment.” He frowned. “Is something burning?”

For a second, no one said anything. Then Bad Bob was gone, high-tailing it back into the kitchen with a string of swears following in his wake.

”Holy shit,” Kent breathed.

”What?”

Talking. That was something. ”I expected him to be … I don’t know. More regal.”

“He’s not a king,” Jack Zimmermann said, and had it not been for the tension in his voice, Kent would’ve made a quip at him. ‘Spock’ still curled on the edge of his tongue. “I told him not to wear that apron.”

”I like the apron.”

”I don’t.”

”It’s cool.”

” … it’s embarassing.”

Kent glanced over. Jack Zimmermann’s jaw was set, but there was a slight hint of colour on his cheekbones. Not a robot after all, then. “I think that’s a father-thing. Being embarrassing.”

Jack Zimmermann nodded, more to Kent than himself, and wasn’t that just a Christmas – a Hanukkah miracle? The two of them chatting like actual teammates? “Is, euh. Is your father embarrassing?”

Small talk. Kent fought down the urge to grin. ”I have no idea. He was deployed when I was six. Never came back.” Not even a lie.

” … I’m sorry. Are the - “ he gestured at Kent’s chest.

“The dog tags? Yeah, they’re his.”

For a second, it almost looked like he was going to say something more - continue a fucking conversation, who was he and what had he done with the real Jack Zimmermann? - but a string of curses from the kitchen cut him off.

” … is he okay in there?”

”He’s fine,” Jack Zimmermann said, mask back in place. The ‘Spock’ returned to Kent’s tongue. ”This happens every year. I’ll go check on him.”

With that, he walked out, arms stiff at his sides, world-stopping ass hidden by a pair of jeans that really weren’t fitted. Too bad. Or good. Definitely good.

A round of laughter pulled Kent from his thoughts. Without thinking too hard, he followed the sound.

On a highly expensive and very, very white couch, Alicia Zimmermann was lounging with her legs pulled up under her and a glass of probably even more expensive and very, very red wine balanced between her fingers. Opposite of her, with his back to Kent, was a balding man, telling something that made Alicia Zimmermann all but bend over in laughter, red wine swirling in her glass in a way that made Kent nauseous. Snorting one last time, she wiped away a single tear, eyes catching on Kent in the doorway as she did. Her grin widened. ”Hello there, you must be Kent! Come in!”

At her words, the man turned, and Kent nearly had a heart attack.

Uncle Luc.

Luc Debois.

Fourth king of hockey.

Most Stanley Cups won in an NHL career.

Was smiling. At _him_. “Jack has mentioned you. You are shorter than I thought.”

How Kent was going to get through the night with his life, never mind his dignity, he had no idea.

Alicia Zimmermann kicked him. ”Luc!”

”He is!” Lucas Debois, five-time Art Ross winner hissed back.

”You’re being very rude,” Alicia Zimmermann chastised before turning back to Kent. She patted the seat next to her on the couch. ”Come sit, Kent. I have so many questions for you.”

He obeyed swiftly, barely sat down on the edge of the couch before Luc Debois was handing him a glass of deep, red wine.

“Um. I’m only sixteen.”

”So?”

Kent glanced to Alicia Zimmermann, who shrugged, then accepted the glass carefully. The wine was luscious, bitter and sweet and definitely stronger than it looked. He had to be careful.

From the kitchen, Bad Bob swore loudly once more.

Luc Debois muttered something in French.

”You’d think so,” Alicia Zimmermann agreed. ”He’s been doing this for years.”

”Should we go help him or something?” Kent asked.

Alicia Zimmermann laughed, loud and clear. ”Oh God, no! He’d throw us out before we managed to even poke our heads in!” Kent’s confusion must have shown, because she continued. ”Luc is a horror with a knife, and I can burn water. Bob hasn’t allowed either of us into his precious kitchen since the great pasta disaster of ’98.”

” … precious?”

She nodded. ”He threw himself completely into being a stay-at-home dad with Jack when he retired, but when Jack started school … he had no idea what to do with himself. I’m still amazed our garden survived until he discovered cooking.”

”Are you talking about me behind my back?” Bad Bob asked, choosing that moment to walk in with the first dish. Kent’s mouth began to water as soon as the smell hit his nose.

”I’m just telling him all your embarrassing secrets,” Alicia Zimmermann smiled. ”And yours, Jack.”

Jack Zimmermann nearly dropped the large dish he was carrying, looking every bit a deer in the headlights.

”I’m kidding,” she added, a little too swiftly. ”Is it time to eat yet? I’m starving! And don’t think you’re getting off the hook,” she added with a finger pointed at Kent. “I wasn’t kidding about those questions.”

“Safe word is réalisatrice,” Luc Debois whispered, and Kent found himself grinning back.

“So,” Alicia Zimmermann said, pouring an extra glass of wine for everyone. “Tell me everything about yourself. And if you even _think_ about mentioning hockey, I’ll have you thrown back out in the snow.”

Kent grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And he wouldn’t, not with Alicia Zimmermann smiling, and her husband grinning, and Jack Zimmermann looking like he’d swallowed a lemon, and Luc _fucking_ Debois growing increasingly red by every refill of his wine glass. Between the five of them, the bottle of wine that had tantalisingly balanced on the edge of the coffee table as Kent had arrived became two, three not an hour later.

And then even Jack Zimmermann was loosening up a bit, laughing softly at something his father said, or quirking what almost looked like a smile as Kent recounted the time he had landed himself a detention in middle school for a prank on his English teacher involving a puck, a portable television and three gummy bears.

He looked good like that. Flushed, and with his shoulders almost down where they belonged instead of pushing at the bottom of his ears. Even the lobes there were a little red, probably would be even more if Kent got them between his teeth, worried them with his tongue, sucked ever so lightly before - 

With a laugh at Bad Bob’s story, Kent put his glass down, reached for water instead.

And good thing, as moments later, pale blue eyes settled on his, bore into him until Kent felt his soul turn inside out, wring itself out until his lungs constricted.

Before he could do something as stupid as pass out, Jack’s eyes were gone, and he was excusing himself, stumbling ever so slightly as the chair beneath him scraped across the carpet.

If he’d known Hanukkah involved that much alcohol, he wouldn’t have turned down Jessie Goldman’s invitation back in middle school. Even if he’d kind of wanted to kiss him, too. And might actually have gotten away with it.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he whispered.

“In the hall, second door from the right,” Luc Debois, captain of the Montréal Canadiens for a decade, back when they were good, replied in a voice probably meant to be a whisper.

Shooting a half-apologetic, half-cheeky grin at Bob and Alicia, Kent excused himself as well.

Second door from the right turned out to be a broom closet, but the third revealed jackpot. So much for drunken NHL retirees.

Returning to the hall, Kent thought he saw a glimpse of dark hair through a half-closed door, a navy jumper. Before he could think it through, his feet brought him forward, powered by alcohol or curiosity or simple stupidity, but the result was the same.

In a small nook with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a beautiful, snow-covered garden, Jack Zimmermann didn’t even look up, but a small tremor in his shoulder let Kent know that he was noticed.

Walking forward, he came to a careful stop a few feet from him. The stars were out, he noticed, clearer than he’d ever seen them.

”It’s very beautiful in the winter,” Jack said, voice as soft as the inch-thick layer of snow outside, as his jumper now with the sleeves pulled down for him to hold in his hands.

Kent wouldn’t mind holding one of those hands. Or throw himself out a fucking window before he do something that fucking stupid. ”What about in the summer?”

Jack shrugged. ”It’s always beautiful. But you can’t skate in the summer.”

”You skate here?”

He nodded. ”There’s a rink a little to the right. You can’t see it from here.”

”You have a rink in your backyard.”

Jack smiled. The sight left Kent’s toes tingling.

”You rich people are fucking weird.”

At that, Jack laughed, loud and honest. When the sound died down, the smile stayed.

A comfortable silence settled. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Perhaps it was the laughter still seeping in from a couple rooms over. Perhaps it was the way Jack looked with his forehead resting against the window.

“I should probably get home soon.”

Pale blue eyes locked on his. “Papa will drive you.”

“I think he’s had a little too much to drink for that.”

“He didn’t drink.”

Kent frowned. “He didn’t?”

Jack shook his head. “He and Maman take turns when we have guests.”

“I’ll just … go talk to him, then.”

“Yeah,” Jack breathed, and Kent kind of wanted to die. Or throw up his entire stomach lining.

If anything was said after that, he didn’t hear it, didn’t _want_ to hear it, was already halfway across the hall towards the living room where Bad Bob looked up and smiled and kissed his wife’s cheek in goodbye.

The car ride was the weirdest Kent had ever been a part of, mellowed only slightly by the alcohol buzzing beneath Kent’s skin.

He was a teenager. A fucking virgin at that. A fucking fag. It would almost be weird if he never thought about fucking a teammate, with how much time he spent with them. With how much skin he saw. And Jack Zimmermann was attractive, undeniably so, blue eyes and an ass that made Kent’s mouth go dry, and he was one of the best fucking hockey players Kent had ever met. Son of a legend Kent had spent his childhood idolising.

It didn’t mean shit. In the morning, when the alcohol was gone from his blood, he’s think straight again.

“Thank you for coming tonight.”

Kent blinked. The car had come to a halt. “Sorry?”

Bad Bob smiled. “I wasn’t sure you would, to be honest.”

“You invited me. ‘course I came.”

“And I appreciate it. We all do. Even Jack, don’t let him fool you.”

Kent almost snorted. “Sure.”

“I’m serious,” Bad Bob said, in the same soft voice his son had used earlier in the night. “We appreciate that you came.”

There was something there, something he was supposed to get, but it was too fucking late for head games, and Kent needed to piss. “I’ll see you guys around. Thanks for the ride.”

Bad Bob smiled, a media face if Kent had ever seen one, yet somehow still real. He’d need to practice that. “You’re welcome. Drink some water. And remember to brush your teeth.”

“Will do.” On the pavement, Kent’s hand stilled on the car door. “Happy Hanukkah.”

The smile changed, turned real once more. “And Merry Christmas.”

In the quiet of the street, the slam of the door echoed, almost still audible as the car pulled away from the curb, drove back. Only when it had turned the corner, out of sight, out of mind, did Kent turn around and walk the last few feet to the front door.

The cold had started to seep through his jacket. Hadn’t made it to his bones, though. Those were still his own.

-/ \\-

It was truly a Christmas miracle that Kent didn’t just start bawling as soon he stepped off the train to find his Ma waiting on the platform. His face was throbbing and swollen and he probably looked like shit, but in that moment he couldn’t care less.

”Ma!”

She whipped around, eyes widening, arms already raised for a bruising hug. He was taller than she was now, not by much, but noticeable still. It didn’t stop him from feeling seven years old, to push his face into the crook of her neck and inhale the smell of roses. Still roses.

”Oh, Ken,” she murmured into his shoulder. ”I’ve missed you, baby.”

”I’ve missed you, too, ma.”

He wasn’t sure if the words had left his mouth, if she had heard him, but a wet sound escaped her lips, a sound like laughter, and when she finally pulled back, she lifted her arm to wipe at her eyes. Sniffing once, she frowned. ”The fuck’s up with your cheek?”

”Got into a fight. ’s no big deal.”

She probably meant to look disapproving. Failed miserably. ”Other guy look worse, at least?”

”Not really,” Kent admitted.

She tsk’ed before pulling him into another long hug. “Jesus, look at you. Five months and you’re all grown-up.”

”I haven’t grown _that_ much.” An inch or two at most, he knew. A few pounds of muscle, probably. Other stuff he wasn’t going to bring up in conversation with his mother.

She laughed again, spilled a few new tears down her cheeks. ”Gosh, I’m being all silly. We better get outta here before this turns into a fucking pity party. You can carry your own shit, right?”

Kent grinned. ”’course ma. How’s the place holding up?”

Something flashed across her face, then, not enough to make Kent’s stomach drop, but - 

“You’re moving.”

“We’re not moving,” his Ma hurried. “Wouldn’t fucking do that without ya, kid, Jesus, who do ya think I am? Most of your things’re still there, and don’t get me wrong but I do _not_ wanna look under your bed - “

“But you’re gonna.”

She opened her mouth, as if to deny it, then nodded. “We’re talking about it. I – let’s talk about this at home, yeah?”

“Sure.” As if he could say anything else, shake her into spitting out every word shared between her and Ben while he’d been gone. Everything he’d missed.

The city hadn’t changed; still screaming, still moving like a giant creature hell bent on eating itself. Same buildings, same people, same stench. Home.

As they walked, chatted about hockey and work and school, he watched her from the corner of his eye. She was still beautiful, would be for a while still, but her bob had turned a slightly duller shade of blonde. There were more crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, more laugh lines by her mouth. And still, she looked more like him than should be possible. As if that fucking asshole hadn’t been involved at all.

“Ben’s not here,” he said as they got home.

His Ma nodded, hung up her coat and padded into the kitchen. “He’s at work. Another murder case, I think.”

Kent followed. “There always is.”

“That’s New York for ya.”

“That why you’re moving?”

At the counter, his ma’s hand still above her tea mug. “Kent, we don’t have to talk about this now.”

“’cause it’d be kinda stupid, wouldn’t it? I mean, a nurse and a policeman, moving away from murder. Or are you just moving someplace nicer?”

His Ma opened her mouth, closed it again. Put on the kettle. “We haven’t decided anything. Ben wants to be closer to his family.”

“In Maryland.”

“Yes. And with you gone, it’s not like I’ve got any family here. Tea?”

Kent nodded, hitched himself up in the window seat. “You’ve lived here all your life, though.”

 _All_ my _life_.

His Ma nodded. “We haven’t decided, yet. I just – I wouldn’t mind some family around.”

Now that you’re gone. Because he probably wouldn’t be back, and they both knew it.

“Empty nest?”

A small smile played across her face, gone as swiftly as it had come. “Not yet.”

“Whaddaya - “ Kent stilled, frowned. “You’re not pregnant, are ya?”

His Ma looked down, and for a second, Kent’s heart stopped.

“No,” she finally said, turned to pour the boiled water into their mugs. “Not anymore.”

Relief flowed through Kent’s veins, swiftly replaced by shame. “I’m – shit, I’m sorry, ma.”

She shrugged. “It happens. I’m old, it’s not … as easy. Anymore.”

The mug was hot in Kent’s hands, burning. “You’re turned thirty-four two weeks ago.”

“Yes.” She smiled, more to herself than him. “I did.”

“But you guys’re trying.”

“It’s not - “ she trailed off. “It wasn’t planned. We don’t have any concrete plans.”

“Like the moving.”

Something flashed in his ma’s eyes, too swift for Kent to recognise. Not quite anger, though. Not quite. “We don’t have any concrete plans. I’ll tell ya if that changes. Now, ‘nough talk ‘bout _my_ sex life. What about you, any pretty girls you haven’t told me about?”

An evasion, clear as day, swift enough for anger of Kent’s own to flash, for his hands to tighten around the mug. “Nope. Don’t have the time.”

And she was back, sighing and looking at him like he’d come home with a failed test. After another fight. “There’s other things in life than hockey.”

“Not if you wanna make it to the NHL.”

“It’s not healthy not to have anything else.”

“I have friends. And I have you, don’t I?”

His ma’s eyes widened. “Yes, of course you do.”

Kent’s hands tightened around his mug again. “Even if you have another kid?”

On the other side of the counter, her eyes softened. “Of course you do. You’ll always be my kid.”

And if he didn’t feel fucking six years old again.

Before Kent – before _either_ of them – could do anything as embarrassing as cry, the front door opened, closed. A voice rang out, deep and kind, still a shock.

From the corner of his eye, Kent saw his mother’s eyes soften even more. Fill with something that was probably happiness. He took another sip of tea.

Perhaps he should see if his old rink was open during the break.

-/ \\-

Ignoring the beginning burn in his arm, Kent tugged the six pack of beer further up his hip and mounted the couple of steps leading him to Vixy’s front door. Or what he really fucking hoped was Vixy’s front door and not some other party. Once inside, though, heat bearing in like a fucking sauna, he caught a glimpse of Gagny in a corner feeling up a girl with long, blonde hair in a red dress. She laughed.

A couple feet from their right, a couple was nearing third base on a divan the size of an armchair.

”Parser!”

Dyer, face as red as the solo cup in his hand, fist held out without regard to the keg Kent was now holding with both hands, like a fucking pussy. Grimacing, he got one free, returned the fist bump.

”And you brought beer, you fucking beaut!”

”Beaut? Someone’s gone native.”

”Well, when you’ve been inside enough … ”

Kent snickered, raised the sixpack. ”Where should I put this?”

”In the kitchen,” came the answer. ”I think. How’d you even get them?”

“Cashier recognised me from a game,” Kent tried, but Dyer was already off, yelling at someone he knew. Or didn’t know. Possibly a potted plant. With a shrug, he made his way to the kitchen, tried not to sigh in relief as the keg came to rest on a table, and a red solo cup with a brown-ish liquid was placed into his hand.

“Careful, I’ve seen guys twice your size go down from a few cups of that.”

Kent glanced up, exchanged a quick fist bump with Vixy whose eyes were already glazed over. Wouldn’t be remembering shit, that was for fucking sure. “Good night so far?”

“Pretty cool. You should see the chicks here, it’s fucking crazy … “ he trailed off.

“What?”

Vixy’s eyes became focused. “What?”

“Chicks?”

He blinked. “Oh, yeah. Fucking hot. ‘specially the one with Zimmermann. Real gorgeous, that one.”

“Cool.” And it was.

”Never knew he had it in him,” Vixy continued, looking once more a million miles away. ”He’s, like, all hockey robot, you know? Usually? But give him a chick and he turns as human as the rest of us. Who knew, eh? You should probably go to him, though, this isn’t a fucking EpiKegster.”

“ … a what?”

”Doesn’t matter.” Vixy shook his head. ”Give it eight years. Now go, my ugly duckling. Become a goose.”

“I think it’s a swan.”

“Tomato, potato.”

Before Kent could say any more (such as ’what the actual fuck’), Vixy sauntered away, left him behind with more questions than he really wanted the answers to. But instead of voicing those questions, or having an appropriately timed existential crisis, he shrugged, took a sip of what he really hoped was beer and went to look for the living room.

The dance floor was barely more than an excuse, a couple of people swaying among one another, solo cups held above their heads. Why they didn’t put them down, Kent had no idea, but he imagined it might have something to do with the beer. Or whatever. Strong shit, somehow not disgusting.

A hand came to rest on his forearm, small and sweaty, chapped gold nail varnish. Following the line of her arm, her shoulder, Kent came face to face with a girl he vaguely recognised. School? A teammate’s girlfriend? Her lips were pink, glistening in the light.

“Danse avec moi.”

Not school, then. “Sorry, I don’t - “

She laughed, tugged at his arm. “C’est n’importe, j’t’enseignai!”

“Just dance with ‘er, Parser!”

Ander, raising a cup from behind the back of a girl all but straddling his lap. Kent grinned back, briefly, before downing the last of his cup and alleviating the pull on his arm by following.

“Claire,” she said, breath warm on his ear.

“Kent,” he replied, and for some reason that made her laugh.

“Kent,” she repeated, placed his hands on her hips, just on the strip of skin between her jeans and top. “Alors, suis-moi.”

And he did. Tried to. His hands on her hips, unmoving, hers in his hair, pulling and pushing ever so slightly at the cap, one step to the side, counteract with another, try not to stumble at another couple pushing in from behind. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulled him in ever so slightly, his hands tightened on her hips, to keep her close or keep her away, she was too drunk to notice. Hips moving together now, not touching, _definitely_ not touching, but together nevertheless.

“Là,” she whispered in his ear, just below the music, a kiss placed in its wake. “T’as appris. Chapeau.”

And with another kiss just below his ear, her hand ran down his back, squeezed briefly at his ass, and she was gone, waltzing off to another poor soul standing in a corner with a solo cup.

Grabbing another cup from where it was placed on a piano, Kent left for another room. Dining room from the look of it. Or some fancy shit like that. On the table, long, expensive-looking, a couple of solo cups had been placed at each end, some piss-poor excuse for beer pong. Or piss-rich.

And on something that wasn’t a couch a few feet behind it, Jack Zimmermann with a cup of his own and a pretty little thing of a brunette with her hand on his arm.

Kent downed the last of his beer, grasped another from a chair.

“Hey, qu’est’ce que tu fait?”

“J’bois,” Kent replied before doing exactly that. “Suis-je – um, need another player?”

One of the guys – and who the fuck were they, some randos Vixy knew? A minor league hockey team? - shrugged, but his buddy spoke. “Non, reviens plus tard.”

Had Kent been someone else, another hockey player, _bigger_ , that would’ve been an invitation to fight. Taken as such, at least. It’d probably end up as one at some point in the night, but it would be without Kent. “Cool. Have fun.”

Keeping the guys in focus from the corner of his eye, Kent walked past, careful not to jostle any of them, plopped down on the other side of Jack on the couch. Divan? Loveseat?

“’sup.”

At the sound of his voice, somehow not the movement, Jack turned, head first, body following. His eyes widened, already slightly glazed. He was smiling.

”Have you ever watched Band of Brothers?”

Kent frowned, glanced at the girl who made an abortive motion back. Returned his attention to Jack. ”No, don’t think so. Is it a movie?”

”Non, it is a miniseries, and it’s so fucking good,” Jack started, a smile lighting up his face, accent thicker than Kent had ever heard.

“Tabernak, pas encore,” the girl muttered, then stood from the couch with a slight stumble carrying her across the room.

Jack’s face fell, one extreme to the other, and Kent kicked him in the leg. Quirked an eyebrow and took another swig of beer. “I’ve got nowhere better to be.”

A beat of silence, then the smile returned, and Jack dove into an explanation, something about World War 2, but Kent couldn’t focus on the words. Perhaps it was the beer, perhaps the way the corners of Jack’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. He had a face made for smiling. It was too fucking bad he didn’t do it very often. If Kent had a face like that he’d be smiling all the fucking time.

His arms joined in, too, as one cup of beer became another became a third, and French interspersed with English. Near-impossible to understand, but that wasn’t the point. Kent nodded along, drank some beer of his own, came to rest with his head on his arm as it became too heavy for his neck.

”Ten!”

Jack’s words came to a halt, confusion as clear on his face as inebriation. It was almost adorable.

”Nine!”

The corner of Kent’s mouth moved upwards.

”Eight!”

Their eyes met. Jack grinned, wide and sloppy and flushed from the tips of his ears to his neck disappearing into a worn hoodie.

”Seven!”

He really should smile more often.

”Six!”

And Kent could’ve fucking punched himself in the face. Poured the beer onto himself so it’d do less damage.

”Five!”

He’d had far too much to drink, dangerously so, if that was the kind of faggot-y shit his brain would be thinking up.

”Four!”

Thinking like that was dangerous.

”Three!”

He should probably leave soon, get home before anyone noticed anything.

”Two!”

Perhaps he should just - 

”One!”

The hand was a shock to his system, worse than had he slapped him as it cradled his cheek, and Kent had no chance to think about it before a pair of lips – chapped, dry, _warm_ \- pressed against his, and all thought went out his head. Flatlined. Static. White noise, and then that was gone, too, as Jack’s mouth started moving against his.

It was nothing like he’d imagined, nothing like he’d jerked off to. It was wet, for one, possibly too much, or too little, what the fuck did he know, and no one had told him about the tip of a tongue running across his lower lip, or what the _fuck_ he was supposed to do with his hands. Jack’s was on his wrist, the one that wasn’t still on his cheek, caressing it, and a thumb across his veins made him gasp, enough for the tongue, _Jack’s_ tongue, to tentatively lick into his mouth. Brain finally setting into action, Kent responded in turn, prayed he was doing something at least somewhat right. Judging by the sound from the back of Jack’s throat that he more felt than heard, he was.

And just as Kent felt himself growing hard, felt Jack tighten his hold on his wrist, it was over. Cold hit like a wave, reality with it, _noise_ \- 

”What. The fuck was that.”

They were at a party. With their teammates. And there Dyer was, staring right at their faces with a solo cup tightly gripped in his hand and a look on his face Kent couldn’t and really, _really_ didn’t want to put a name to.

”It, um, I - ”

”Is not that what you do?” Jack interrupted, words blurring together.

”Yeah, but it’s usually with a chick,” Dyer said, eyes darting from one to the other.

“Oh.” Jack grinned, somehow wider and sloppier than earlier, as if Kent’s kiss had intoxicated him further.

A bolt of pain tore Kent from his delusions. He loosened the fists his hands had curled up in, wiped away the small, crescent-shaped bubble of blood on his jeans. _Fucking faggot_.

“I must have misunderstood. Sorry.” Dragged out ‘o’, and Kent wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face, remove every trace of himself left on his lips. In his _mouth_.

Dyer’s eyes narrowed. “How drunk are you guys?”

Jack giggled. “So … fucking drunk.”

Kent nodded, ignored the pain in his palms. ”Y’have no idea, bro.”

Jack giggled again.

”Jesus,” Dyer muttered, as if he wasn’t staggering himself. “Go home, both of you. Sleep it off. And - “ he burped. “ - and don’t fall asleep in the snow. I know it looks soft, but it’s mean.”

With that, he walked away, clasped a hand on the shoulder of one of the beer pong players. Kent’s stomach dropped. Next to him, Jack burped, too. His face was still flushed, even more so now, eyes glazed like a fucking birthday cake, and Kent felt his insides turn to ice.

“I’m gonna go home now. You good to get home safe?”

Jack pouted, straight up fucking _pouted_ , and the urge to punch him returned. ”Already?”

Hands firmly relaxed at his sides, Kent nodded. ”See ya Wednesday.”

”We’nsday,” Jack repeated. Giggled again.

Kent left.

The walk out was swift, would’ve been had he not paused to down another cup of beer, a second for good measure. By the time the night air hit his skin, he felt about as drunk as he should’ve been for that kiss.

His first kiss.

Not that he cared. Not that he _fucking_ cared.

Who knew how many had seen. How many questions he’d get Wednesday. If they’d even let him inside the dressing room, if they wouldn’t just jump him in the parking lot and get it over with, get rid of the fucking faggot, the cocksucker, the _freak_ that dared to think he could ever be allowed to share their ice.

Perhaps falling asleep in the snow wasn’t that bad an idea. Just get it over with.

Except that was a coward’s thought, a coward’s choice, and Kent was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a fucking coward. If he was to go, they’d have to carry him kicking and screaming.

The Bouchard house was quiet, as expected, somehow darker than the other houses on the street. It took three tries for Kent to get the key in the lock – frozen fingers, forgotten gloves, he’d get them back some other time – but eventually, the door swung open, shut with a click. Kent didn’t bother taking off his shoes, just staggered through the hall and into the living room. Sleep was what he was going to do, sleep, and forget, and deal with everything in the morning.

He took another step forward, only to stagger back as something hard hit the side of his head. A swear was torn from his lips, and he reached out for a wall, an armchair, something to keep him from falling, but caught the stand of the lamp he’d walked into instead. A shot of adrenaline tore through his body, but it was too late. With a clatter that echoed through the room, echoed through the entire fucking street, it fell to the floor.

Upstairs, hushed voices began speaking together, a bed creaked, and Kent swore again before making a beeline to his room, knocking into an armchair as he went. The door was a couple of feet away when the light turning on forced him to stop, to steady himself on another chair as his eyes throbbed at the sudden onslaught.

”Kent?”

Sylvie. As if he needed any more shit.

”What’s going on? What are – what happened to the lamp?” Bernie asked.

”I didn’t … ” Kent cleared his throat, tried not to grimace too hard at the soreness. ”I didn’t see it.”

”Do you know what time it is?” Sylvie asked sharply.

Kent shook his head, regretted it instantly.

”It is way too late for you to be stomping around like an elephant and knocking over our furniture!”

A wave of anger swept through Kent’s body, nearly knocked him off his feet, but he kept hold on the armchair, forced himself to breathe as Sylvie walked over to him and frowned. Sniffed the air.

”Are you drunk?”

”What’s it to you?”

Sylvie’s eyes darkened. ”It is to me that you are underage and our responsibility.”

”You’re not my fucking ma!”

”I am not, but I do not think your mother would approve of this,” Sylvie hissed. “Now to go bed, we will speak of this tomorrow. Try not to knock any more over tonight. And do not ruin the carpet.”

Kent opened his mouth, to tell her to shut up, to let her know where she could stick her fucking carpet, but nothing came out, and she was gone, marching towards the stairs, before he could try again. From the door, Bernie gave Kent a hard look, so out of place in his otherwise soft face, and followed his wife upstairs.

A scream had lodged itself in Kent’s throat, threatened to tear him apart from within, but he bit it down, bit his lip until he tasted iron, the same fucking lip Jack had sucked on only an hour before, that still tasted like him. With a deep, shuddering breath, he pushed himself off the chair and into his room, made sure to slam the door behind him as loud as he could.

No one came back down to yell at him. Probably for the best.

-/ \\-

For about five minutes after his clock went off, Kent considered not getting up. He’d never been one to ditch practice, couldn’t remember a single time. School, obviously, but never practice. But now …

It was ridiculous, moronic, but every time he closed his eyes, he could taste Jack on his lips.

He’d been so fucking drunk. Both of them had. They’d been drunk, and Kent had been nearby, and Jack didn’t think because Jack wasn’t disgusting fucking faggot, and Kent didn’t think because he _was_.

At least it hadn’t been Channer. Or fucking Marron.

Jack probably didn’t even remember. As for the other guys … 

They’d been drunk. Drunk and stupid. Not fucking worth risking his future over.

And so, half an hour later, Kent walked into the rink with his breath stuck in his chest and his right hand gripping at the strap of his bag. In the lobby, sparsely lit and mostly abandoned, he forced himself to take a deep breath.

It was just practice. Nothing had changed. No one was waiting around the corner to jump him.

No one was even there, save for a lone figure already on the ice that Kent barely had to glance at to recognise. Zimmermann didn’t glance back.

In the privacy of the dressing room, he changed slowly, inhaling and exhaling steadily as more and more skin became exposed and once more covered.

When he finally entered the rink, it was with the confidence of his uniform, the number on his back. Who he was off the ice, what he’d done, didn’t matter anymore, only what he could do with a stick in his hand and ice under his skates.

Zimmermann didn’t slow down as he stepped on to join him, didn’t spare him a single glance, just continued going through drills as if he’d die if he stopped.

Probably for the best.

Keeping his eyes on the goal in front of him, Kent shot off his first puck. Second. Third.

Ninety-seventh, as he noticed a figure skating up to him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that, right?”

Kent stretched his back, spared Channer a grin. “’course. And it’s what’s gonna get me first pick.”

A stick came down on his shin, hard enough to feel, not enough to hurt. “In your fucking dreams.”

“Obviously.”

Channer made a noise of agreement before turning to bump his stick to Ander’s as he skated past. “Did you have any of that beer at Vixy’s New Year’s?”

Kent’s heart lept in his throat. ”Yeah, some. Why?”

”I feel like I’m still hungover.”

 _Breathe_. ”Jesus Christ, how much didja have?”

Channer snorted. “A lot. I think I hooked up with some blonde chick.”

”That’s probably just your imagination, you realise that, right?”

“Fuck you, Parser.” Another hit, painless.

”You talking about the New Year’s party?”

Beneath his glove, Kent’s knuckles turned white.

“Yeah,” Channer confirmed. “Can’t remember shit from it, though.”

Marron smiled, slow and lazy in a way that made his face look even more like a ferret’s than it already did. ”So you don’t remember Parser and Zimmermann’s tonsil hockey?”

The feeling of ice around Kent’s organs returned, threatened to shatter him into tiny pieces, dust to blow off in the wind.

Channer frowned. ”What?”

Marron’s smile widened. ”You don’t remember?”

“To be fair,” Kent interrupted, voice steady as by some miracle he didn’t deserve. “I don’t think _I_ remember that. You sure it was us?”

For a heartbeat, Marron’s face fell. “I didn’t see it. But Dyer said he did.”

“Dyer?” Kent snorted. Didn’t choke. “Look, I don’t remember much from that party, but I do remember Dyer being fucking sloshed. He probably dreamt it.”

It took every bit of control he had not to jump at Channer’s sudden laugh.

“So you and Zimmermann didn’t kiss?” Marron asked, clearly not as convinced.

Kent shrugged. Grinned, slow and lazy, shoulders down. “To be completely honest, I have no idea. I don’t remember it though.”

Marron opened his mouth, but the arrival of Dejardin, the subsequent orders, shut it again.

There’d be more questions, probably. He’d need to be ready for those. He and Zimmermann who glided past to stand in the front. Zimmermann who probably didn’t even have to lie when he said he didn’t remember.

Good thing Kent was the king of lies.

-/ \\-

Melanie was short and blue-eyed, liked history dramas an awful lot, and Kent tried not think of what that said about him when he accepted her invitation of going to the movies. Her voice had been quiet, and she’d wrung her hands by her lap, and he’d felt the skin stretch across his cheeks as he smiled.

They were lab partners, had been for a couple of months, and he thought they had a good thing going. Worked well together. Joked. She was sweet, and pretty, and had a wicked sense of humour, and he’d figured, well. If he couldn’t make it work with her, there probably wasn’t anything to do. Might as well give girls an actual shot.

They met in front of the movie theatre, just as the last strays of sunlight made its way over the horizon, glinting in the snow on the ground and the little in her hair.

”Sorry you had to wait.”

”I don’t mind.”

She smiled, a closed-lipped one that only accentuated the pink gloss on her lips. Her eyes seemed bigger than usual, too, he noted. And she didn’t usually wear skirts.

”You look nice,” he tried.

”Thanks. So do you.”

Her eyes stayed on the ground. He wiped his hands on his jeans as they walked in, bought their tickets. They both agreed popcorn was inferior, and so he bought her sweets. Made her laugh with an impression of their history teacher. She tried to stand close to him. He made sure not to inch away.

When the doors opened, Kent went through every single swear word he’d ever learned and a few he hadn’t as they found their seats at the very back of the theatre.

Darkness made people brave. In a selfish thought, he didn’t want Melanie to be brave.

Perhaps it’d been a mistake to come.

Perhaps he needed to pull himself the fuck together.

Barely twenty minutes of the movie passed before her hand inched into his, her eyes firmly ahead. It was soft, much smaller than his, and after a few minutes, he figured he kind of liked it. In the same way he liked the way one of the girls he used to babysit back home would seat herself in his lap whenever she wanted to show him something in a magazine. And he’d put his arms around her waist and his head on her shoulder, and it would mean absolutely nothing because she was twelve years old and Ben’s colleague’s daughter and kicked his ass at video games.

He didn’t think Melanie wanted the hand holding to mean nothing.

Their hands stayed together.

On the screen, Ryan Reynolds, clad in a loose white dress shirt, fiddled with a handgun, and Kent tightened his hold on Melanie.

Worth a fucking shot his fucking ass.

They left the theatre hand in hand still, except now her fingers were entangled with his, and she was looking at him through her eyelashes. She was cute, she really was. And the hand holding was nice. And her perfume was nice. She was nice.

So when she leaned up to kiss him (his second kiss, a small voice at the back of his head supplied), he didn’t stop her, but he also didn’t kiss her back. Couldn’t make himself. Not that.

When they pulled apart, she gave him another smile, less shy, sadder, but didn’t say anything, and when Kent offered to walk her home, she accepted.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair as they hugged goodbye a safe distance from her house so that her dad wouldn’t hunt him with a shotgun. Or the Canadian equivalent. Moose-hunting gear.

“It’s okay,” she whispered into his shoulder.

”Are we still friends?”

”I’d like to think so,” she shrugged, gave him a smile even faker than he’d been acting all night.

As she walked to her front door, they both pretended she was wiping snow from her face.

Kent would never fucking get the queers that could just date women for years. Marry them. Have _kids_. He couldn’t even go on one shitty date with a girl without making them both fucking miserable.

The next day, with the reluctant help of Claudine, he went out and bought a box of chocolates. Melanie smiled when he gave it to her, but they didn’t joke together like they used to, nor the day after. Or the week after.

By the time they were assigned new partners, all Kent could feel was relief.

-/ \\-

Marron didn’t see Beau. One moment he was lifting his stick to shoot off the puck towards the other team’s defensive zone, the next two hundred and twenty-five pounds of hockey player barrelled into him. As the two struggled for balance, the puck went flying across the ice, scooted right to Gagny’s stick who was off before any of the orange-clad Océanics had realised what had happened.

On the bench, Kent bit down a groan.

Coach Dejardin slapped his back. ”Your turn, Parson. Show how it is done.”

A dirty look came his way when he passed Marron on his way onto the ice. If Kent’s skate sent a small wave of snow against his shin pad, he was too far away before Marron could do anything about it.

The puck was in the orange defensive zone, somewhere in a heap of clattering sticks and shouting hockey players. Kent dug his skate in a few feet away, eyes darting between the aspects of the fight, stick at the ready. A second or two later, when the puck was shut out, he grabbed it and went off.

There were only two blue players in the other end of the rink, two D-men surrounding Vixy already on his knees like overgrown pit bulls, matching faces and all. It would be a tough shot, only a couple of weak spots easily covered by a quick reflex or a D-man going from defence to attack.

Alone, at least.

From the corner of his eye, an orange flash made him up his speed ever so slightly. If Zimmermann had caught up, other players would be there soon. No more than four seconds, three -

A second body, blue and white, appeared in his line of vision, and Kent wasted no time sending the puck off in a quick flick of the wrists. Zimmermann caught the puck without issue, continued forward while Kent took a lap around the blue player to slow him down. Not much, but enough for Zimmermann to make it to the defensive zone. As soon as he crossed the blue line, Kent was off again, legs pumping and lungs burning. The D-men were even better in place now, but even they wouldn’t be able to withstand a two-man attack.

The first shot – too quick, too alone - landed in Vixy’s glove, swiftly picked up by a blue-clad player, but a quick check by Channer sent it scooting across the ice again. Kent bit down a swear, dug his heel in to turn, but Zimmermann was closer. The puck was caught near the boards, only a few feet from where coach Dejardin was watching.

There was no way Zimmermann would make it in the second shot, either, not with the D-men ready where they were. At the goal, Channer was still half-fighting Boomer. In another corner, Tremmer was getting up from a check. Left in the defensive zone, Cookie was out of the question.

Zimmermann glanced around, met Kent’s eye for the briefest of moments where he had paused just in shot line of the goal, then took another step forward, slightly to the side, not where Dyer was expecting him, and shot again.

Vixy didn’t even get to touch it this time around, not with Ander intercepting mid-shot, shooting the puck back towards centre ice in a perverse reversed one-timer. Kent barely had time to turn and watch another blue-clad Océanic receive and set off. Within twenty seconds, not even enough time for Kent to make it to the defensive zone, not with fucking Dyer being all up in his face, the puck ended up just above an orange shoulder in the other net. Kent didn’t break his stick, but it was a near fucking thing.

Zimmermann’s expression didn’t even fucking _change_.

*

The Shawinigan Cataracte hit the ice. His helmet fell off his head on impact, rolled across the ice and right into the path of a Beau, who fell as well. Kent didn’t like the sound he made, but skated on. The puck had been picked up by Gagny, and like hell was Kent going to complain about another body in yellow out of the way.

Before he could catch up, another Cataracte had Gagny pushed against the boards, a swift battle taking place between their sticks that ended in the puck going to the side. Again too far off, seconds, aeons in this game, but Zimmermann was there to pick up the slack, already on his way towards the goal. Without thinking, Kent turned on his heel to follow from another angle, eyes on the D-men already moving back.

It would be a tight shot, but they could do it.

The puck made its way across the blue line at the exact second Kent’s skate did. A quick glance at the nearby ref showed no incoming penalty, and so he kept going, matched Zimmermann’s speed but fifteen feet to the left. As expected, all eyes were on Zimmermann, the prodigal son, he of the shots that were too precise and far too fucking fast. They were ready for him, Kent could see it in the way they stood, the way they breathed. They wouldn’t even have time to notice the pass, not before Kent had sent it in just above the goalie’s shoulder.

A glance to the right revealed Zimmermann speeding on, no glances back, no notice that Kent was even there. For a second Kent thought he was merely too focused, the way he sometimes was in practice or their afternoons afterwards. Too caught up in the game, too in love. Kent knew the feeling, knew how it tasted on his tongue, how it smelled, like rubber and sweat and victory and blood. All too easy to get lost in.

And not something you could afford during a game. Not with others around.

Yelling at him would defeat the whole purpose, and so Kent grit his teeth and skated just a bit closer to the goal. It was possible Zimmermann could make the shot, get the goal. He’d seen more improbable goals. But it would be difficult. Unnecessary.

And so when he finally lifted his stick, sent the puck off in a slap shot that ended in the goalie’s glove, Kent bit back another wave of frustration, of _anger_. Of slight, perverse satisfaction as one of the Cataracte D-men threw himself against Zimmermann, drew a thin line of blood on his right cheek with the first hit.

A whistle blew, but it was too late. The second hit came from Zimmermann, because of course it did, fucker could never fucking keep calm, hit the Cataracte straight on the nose. The break could be heard on the other side of the rink, if Marron’s slightly nauseated look was anything to go by, the blood probably visible there as well as it sprayed the ice between them, tainted crisp white jerseys.

There was no third hit, not with the linemen stepping in, pulling them apart. Others were drawing in, too, blue and yellow, hovering just outside of reach, ready to step in. Kent kept back, moved his mouth guard around with his tongue as a ref joined in.

The Cataracte was escorted off the ice, something pressed to his nose. Zimmermann kept standing, hands curled into fists in his gloves, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon. Kent couldn’t see his eyes. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.

”Rimouski Océanics number one, major penalty for fighting.”

A groan went through the crowd. As if anything else could be expected from that fucking shit-show.

Still, Kent made sure they crossed paths on the way to the bench and the box, lowered his voice to a hiss. ”The fuck was that?”

Zimmermann glanced at him, eyes hard, jaw set. Kept skating.

“Crazy motherfucker,” Channer muttered on the bench, and Kent could do nothing but nod. Lest he say something he’d regret.

*

It was on a Wednesday afternoon that Kent finally snapped.

The awkwardness following New Year’s had long gone, firmly erased under layers and layers of anger and the number one rule of hockey: don’t bring shit onto the ice that doesn’t belong there.

He just wished Jack fucking Zimmermann would learn the fucking rules, too.

That he didn’t want to be friends, Kent couldn’t care less about. That he ignored him whenever they shared a room on roadies, that was okay. That he didn’t talk to him apart from a grunt here or there, well, they were all teenage boys. Grunting counted as an emotional conversation.

But the passing, the sheer lack of it, the unprofessionalism? Not liking someone was one thing. Ruining a play because of it … hockey didn’t fucking work like that, no matter how far up the royalty of it you were.

And so, when Kent was positioned right at the goal with only one D-man around at a mock-game and Zimmermann still went for the shot himself - 

”What the fuck is your fucking problem?”

Zimmermann didn’t turn, didn’t even spare him a _fucking_ glance, and that was it. Kent was done.

“Too high and mighty for the rest of us fucking peasants, are ya? Can’t stoop down to our level or it’ll dirty your points or something? Lemme tell ya something, y’fucking fagg- ”

It was a sound before it was a feeling. Skin against skin. Bone against bone. Equal pain and wrath and terror and _delight_ swept through Kent’s body, ravaged his mind, but he bit it down, pushed off his own gloves and landed a hit on Zimmermann’s chin in one swift motion. Pride swelled in his chest, mixed with the pain taking over in his mouth, the blood. He raised his fists again, ready for another shot, ready for _something_ , but a pair of arms locked around him from behind, another pair encircling Zimmermann. A yell tore through the air, his own, or Zimmermann’s, fucking _Dejardin’s_ for all Kent cared, but it was no use. Gagny was older, and stronger and far, far angrier.

”Easy there, little man,” Vixy whispered in his ear. An unwelcome shiver ran down Kent’s spine, gone as quickly as it had come as Gagny let out a loud string of French ending in ’Zimmermann’.

On the other side of the rink, Dejardin was yelling – perhaps it really had been him – entirely in French. Even if it’d been English, Kent wouldn’t have given enough of a shit to try and listen. The pain in his cheek was becoming more evident as the adrenaline wore off. Moisture filled up his mouth, forced him to turn his head and spit. Red hit the ice with a nauseating sound, contrasted almost comically with the off-white ice underneath save for a small, white piece of something hard in the centre of it.

”Is that his fucking … ” Channer started, but ended the sentence with a glove pressed to his mouth.

Vixy slackened his grip and Kent took his chance, wiggled loose and skated off towards the dressing rooms before anyone had the mind to stop him. Circling a tongue along his teeth, he swiftly found the still-bleeding vacuity.

Had to happen at some point.

A part of him, a small part, a _sick_ part, found immense pleasure in the fact that it’d been Zimmermann.

*

Four days later, with Sylvie threatening to come pick him up from school and lock him in his room should he try to go to practice, Kent returned. Four days of mushy food and blood when he brushed his teeth.

The dressing room was empty, wouldn’t be for long, he knew, but he’d take what he could get. Change without stress for once in two years. For the rest of his life.

The peace lasted for ten minutes before Zimmermann walked in, bag slung across his shoulder and a large, purple mark on his cheek.

“Nice shiner.”

Zimmermann glanced over. “Nice lip.”

Kent snickered. From the corner of his eye, he could swear Zimmermann’s lip quirked upwards.

Tying the last knot on his skates, Kent heaved himself up, grabbed his stick. “You want the front or the back of the rink?”

”Front.”

Kent nodded, walked out.

The ice was solid beneath his skates, like being born and coming home. He barely noticed when Zimmermann joined him, when the sound of pucks hit and skates sliding meshed with his.

At one point, a puck made its way to Kent’s half. Without thinking, he sent it back, straight to Zimmermann who one-timed it into the goal. Without a word, they both returned to their own drills.

Seventeen minutes later, Channer walked in and nearly dropped his bag on the floor along with his jaw. Letting pucks be pucks, Kent skated over, held out a glove-less fist.

”What the actual fuck,” Channer greeted, eyes still on the ice where Zimmermann was shooting slapshot after slapshot into the net. ”He punched your tooth out last week!”

Kent shrugged.

”How are you okay with that?”

Kent shrugged.

”You’re fucking crazy, man.”

Kent shrugged, glanced to his right where Zimmermann was collecting the last of his pucks back into their bucket.

Later that practice, he hit a one-timer off Zimmermann’s pass. Perfectly timed, perfect delivery. When they returned to centre ice, Jack nodded, and Kent nodded back.

That afternoon, they wordlessly skated up to each other, practised off each other’s shots for the first time.

Fucking crazy, indeed.

-/ \\-

Playoffs hit in March, harder than a fucking hurricane.

One day, he was strolling through school and practices and games like usual, he next he was breathing so much hockey he felt like he was going to choke on it. Or become addicted.

Probably already was.

He still called his ma. Went to school. Played video games with Claudine, ate dinner with the Bouchards. But every second not doing any of those things was spent at the rink or at a game. By week three, he was getting concerned look from most of his teammates and a few of the staff members.

But not Jack. Jack got it.

The twentieth puck hit the back of the net, in the exact same spot of the nineteen prior.

Kent let out a low whistle. ”You’ve gotten better. Didn’t think that was possible.”

Jack smiled, small but noticeable. ”I, euh, I practised on the rink at home. With papa.”

”The one in your backyard? Isn’t it too hot for that now?”

”It’s a cold spring,” Jack mumbled. ” … and we might have some cooling elements dug down underneath it.”

The laughter tore itself from Kent’s lungs, burned his already abused throat.

“Don’t tell Maman.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The twenty-first puck hit the net. Jack was still smiling, subtly, but there. You just had to look in his eyes, Kent had found. Above the deep purple bruises beneath them.

It’d been a slow change, probably unnoticeable to anyone not spending every second of their free time on the ice with him. The dark circles, the notebook filled with plays, the flash of something that couldn’t be fear whenever his phone rang. The way his hands had begun to shake when they were off-ice.

Kent did his best not to think of that night they were hazed. It wasn’t any of his business, whatever ‘it’ was. If it was anything at all.

Picking up a hockey stick while being the son of Bad Bob Zimmermann came with a price, it seemed, and not for the first time, Kent was grateful his name was his own.

But for now, Jack was smiling. Later that week, when they met the Chicoutimi Saguenées, whose goalie had saved every single one of his shots the last time they played them, he wasn’t.

With a grin, and a flick of his wrist, Kent’s first puck joined Jack’s twenty-one. And Jack grinned back. Mostly with his eyes.

*

The door of the Bouchard home shut with a small click as Kent collapsed back against it, ignoring the way his legs were threatening to give out under him. The way his torso felt like one big bruise. With a deep sigh, he pushed himself back onto his feet, winced at the new onslaught of pain. When he’d pulled off his skates after morning practice, a toenail had come off along with it. He’d bled through two rounds of bandages already, and if his sock wasn’t soaked when he took off his shoes, he’d be shocked.

Major junior hockey. What he wanted. What he’d worked his ass off towards since he was nine. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

In the living room, Sylvie and Bernie were lounging on the couch, watching some movie or other, only giving him a quick glance as he dragged himself in.

”You look like shit,” Sylvie noted, voice not as cold as it had been four months prior. Or even two.

“Tough practice?” Bernie tried.

Kent could only nod.

”We’ve got a tub in the master bathroom,” Bernie offered. ”A good soak would help your muscles heal.”

”Thanks,” Kent mumbled. ”I’m good. ‘night.”

”You don’t want any dinner?”

He shook his head.

A shush from Sylvie put an end to the conversation. Kent almost wanted to thank her.

He left the bag with dirty training clothes on the floor of his room. It could wait another day.

(It could, in fact, not wait another day. He came back from breakfast the next morning to the bag in the bushes behind his room and Sylvie sternly tell him to wash his goddarn clothes so he didn’t stink up the entire house.)

Brushing his teeth was the accomplishment of the day, he decided when he collapsed on the bed. He was gone before his head hit the pillow.

_The first thing Kent noticed was a training stall, and he wanted to fucking scream. Spending all of his free time in a dressing room and dreaming of one, too? It was almost too cruel._

_Empty, at least. Or maybe not._

_Kent could’ve sworn the shower space hadn’t been there before, even though he’d never been in a dressing room without one. Dream shit. But there it was, and walking out of it, wearing only a flimsy towel, was Jack fucking Zimmermann._

_The urge to scream returned._

_He looked different in the dream than in real life, a sensible part of Kent’s brain supplied._

_He looked fucking hot, a more primal part overshadowed. Water was glistening on his skin, making his dark and usually helmet-shaggy hair stick to his head in a way that shouldn’t be adorable but was. The small patches of curls on his chest and lower stomach were darker, too, and Kent couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering down, admiring the harder v-cut of his hips, the clear definition of his abs that definitely didn’t look like that in real life. The curve of his ass, though … not even his dreams could make that better than reality._

_The Jack that wasn’t real but still_ sure fucking felt it _walked over to him, lifted his hand to Kent’s arm. Impossibly soft fingers trailed over the skin of his wrist, followed the veins before encircling it. His other hand moved to Kent’s conveniently naked chest, burning hot fingers trailed down and down and down, until -_

Kent woke up with a start, hard and throbbing and already leaking through his boxers. Before his brain could properly catch up, he reached down, barely even touched himself before spilling all over his pants with a bitten-off whine still painfully loud in the quiet of the house.

He collapsed back on the bed, tried and failed to keep his breaths quiet as reality returned. The clock to his left read 2:31 in harsh, red numbers.

When feeling returned to his knees, he stood, swayed for a few moments before tip-toeing to the bathroom to clean himself off. He’d already half-dried on his skin, flaking slightly, but showering in the middle of the night was out of the question, no matter how much he wanted to scrub the shame off his skin until it was raw and bleeding. Instead, it settled into a hard ball in the pit of his stomach, thick enough to make him want to vomit.

With a couple of deep breaths and a clean pair of boxers, Kent returned to bed, pulled the covers to his chin and screwed his eyes shut. Forced his mind to hockey plays and upcoming games. To his ma. To dead puppies.

How long it took for him to fall asleep, he had no idea. When he woke up, the shame was still there.

Later that week, the Rimouski Océanics lost a home game to the Charlottetown Islanders. Making an assist when not being able to look the scorer in the eye was pretty fucking difficult, it turned out.

-/ \\-

”Are you eating?”

”I’m eating right now.”

”Something healthy?”

Kent glanced down. ”It’s a sandwich. Chicken. Lots of protein.”

”Protein’s not the end all be all,” his Ma said, not for the first and definitely not for the last time.

”I need muscle mass,” Kent argued.

”You’ll lose your speed.”

”No, I won’t.”

”Ken, I’m a nurse. I know.”

”And I’m a hockey player. I know, too.”

”Wait, you play hockey? I had no idea!”

”Hilarious. But seriously, two more games and we’re in the finals. I have to do everything I can, you know?”

”I know, sweetie, but … don’t let it get too much. Can you promise me that?”

”Whaddaya mean ’too much’?”

”How’s school going?”

” … it’s going.”

”Kent.”

”Sorry. But it’s the President’s Cup. If I can get that in my rookie year - ”

”I know, Ken, you’ve told me.” She sighed. ”Can we talk about something other than hockey? Just, literally anything else.”

Biting down something angry, Kent popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. He’d need to get to bed soon if he wanted enough rest for pre-morning practice. ”Like what?”

“Like … “ she trailed off. Kent could almost see her biting her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth the way she used to do all the time after his father left and she didn’t want him to know how tough life was.

Worrying, then. Annoying now. “What is it?”

“I – we’ve got some news here, too.”

She sounded nervous, and so Kent did what he always did. “What, you pregnant or something?”

It was a joke, a crass one given … everything, but his Ma didn’t laugh. Instead, a beat of silence rang between them, and Kent’s stomach plummeted.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“For – shit, I don’t know how to ask this. For real this time?”

“Yes. There’s … last time, it ended earlier. In the first trimester. I’m past that now.”

He couldn’t see her, but Kent was ready to bet there was a hand on her belly, protecting, like he’d seen in pictures from before his birth. From before she even began showing.

“When – congratulations, I - shit. Um. So, when is it?”

 _When is it_ , like they were talking about a fucking event, some party, a new job.

And maybe it was.

“October.” Her voice was gentle, tentative, as if fearing – what? Anger? Jealousy? “So a while still.”

Four months. Probably not showing yet, then. And still a protecting hand above the bundle of cells growing inside of her.

Kent fought down the urge to clear his throat. Smiled instead, even though she couldn’t see him. “That’s – big. Wow. You thought of names yet? Do you know the gender?”

“A boy.” She smiled, infinitely more real than Kent could muster. “We’re been talking about Jerome.”

“No.” _Jesus_. “Do I have a say? ‘cause just. No.”

“I know, but it’s a family name.”

Ben’s family. Hers, now. Almost a year.

“I’m trynna think of something better.”

“Better try harder, then.”

Another joke, equally crass, equally unappreciated.

“Sorry.”

“’s fine. Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out. Do ya – um, do you have any suggestions?”

It took everything Kent had not to laugh. Or throw up. “Harold?”

She snorted. It sounded as fake as his smile. “You think you’re so fucking funny, don’tcha?”

“I’m fucking hilarious, and you know it.”

And he was, usually, and she thought so. Usually.

“I wish I could’ve told you face to face.”

 _Shouldn’t’ve gotten yourself knocked up, then_. “It’s alright. Better now than when I come home. It’d be a bit of a shock to suddenly see my Ma looking like a fucking whale.”

“I won’t be that big. You’ll barely notice.”

“Sure.”

Wrong thing to say, but said it was. A silence stretched between them, longer than they’d ever had.

“I should go to bed now.”

“Already?” A tint of desperation. Fucking pathetic, if Kent’s fingers weren’t curled into the hem of his boxers.

“I’m really tired. It’s been a long day.”

“ … of course. Sorry to spring this on you this late.”

“It’s fine. Sleep well.”

“You, too, baby. I love you.”

” … you, too.”

The call ended with a quiet click. Kent stood a moment in the darkness, listened to the soft fall of rain outside before turning off his phone. He kept standing for a while, motionless in the tiny bubble that still belonged to him. That hadn’t just been turned upside down, while everything else remained motionless.

-/ \\-

The last game ended up being a roadie, and for that Kent was grateful. There were small mercies in getting to cry in a shower you didn’t have to stand in every day after practice.

It started out with a bag that didn’t fit.

”Fuckin’ piece of shit,” Kent muttered, pushed at the other bags in the bus trunk with one hand while holding his own with the other. Eventually, they gave way enough for his to land on top, slightly pressed but hopefully surviving.

With a sigh, he walked the couple of steps into the bus and plopped himself down in the first empty seat he could find. Next to Jack, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Kent was too fucking tired to care.

On the other side of the aisle, Channer was chatting along as usual, loudly describing the body parts of whatever girl he may or may not have gotten his dick wet with during the weekend. Trying not to roll his eyes, Kent pulled out a packet of gum, popped a piece into his mouth. He’d join the conversation some other time.

Next to him, Jack let out a small sigh, sounding and looking exactly how Kent felt. A pang of sympathy made him bump their shoulders together and hold out the gum. ”No sugar. Promise.”

Jack smiled, a small one, but a smile still. The size didn’t matter, Kent had found. They all did the same things to his insides. Something he’d deal with after they held the President’s Cup above their heads.

”Attention up here, please!”

If Dennis Dejardin hadn’t chosen to be a hockey coach, he could’ve had a long and prosperous career as a foghorn.

”If you lose this, we are out. No more hockey this season. Some of you look like you need that, and those of you are cowards that will never make it anywhere.”

Kent raised an eyebrow.

”The rest of you, I am expecting to give it your all. No unnecessary penalties, no stupid shots, no hanky-panky.”

’Hanky-panky?’ Channer mouthed. Kent shrugged.

”Some of you will be drafted next month, some of you have next year, or the year after. Some of you will not be drafted at all. What happens is up to you, and how much you are willing to lose to get to the top. You can either work for your future now and win, or you can slack off and lose. Just remember, your future will be lost with it, so I suggest you stop acting like little boys and pull yourself together. I will not have this laziness tonight,” coach Dejardin ended with a huff, sat back down in his front row seat.

What Kent wouldn’t give to see him on the ice. See how well he’d fare against the fucking Mooseheads.

Next to him, Jack’s leg had started bouncing. Within minutes, it began to look slightly painful. For exactly three seconds, Kent entertained the notion of putting his hand on it before nudging their shoulders together again and offering Jack an earbud. It was accepted with a frown and a small nod in thanks.

The frown quickly deepened. ”What … exactly are we listening to?”

Kent grinned. ”It’s Britney, bitch.”

Jack looked confused. “That’s not a very nice word.”

”It’s a reference to one of her songs,” Kent tried. ”Which isn’t about a dog. I think. Not a female one anyway.”

He needed a fucking nap. Or someone to take pity on him and find a large, heavy club to put him out of his misery. Whatever happened first.

”Okay. Thanks.” With that, Jack went back to staring out the window.

Kent closed his eyes. Only three more hours to Halifax.

Thirteen hours later, a large body slammed into him, sent him shoulder-first into the boards. Biting out a grunt, not daring to take any further breaks, he skated off towards the now Moosehead-controlled puck. In the sin bin, Jack was glaring, but it was his own fucking fault for punching that D-man.

Not like the fucker hadn’t deserved it, but still.

Only a couple of feet were between Kent and the puck when the Moosehead lifted his stick. With a swear under his breath, he dove forward, but it was too late. The puck skirted across the ice, met another stick and ended up just above Vixy’s shoulder.

The horn blew. A Moosehead with a playoff beard that shouldn’t be possible for an eighteen-year old skated away from his newly-scored goal, stick held high above his head. He was roaring, but Kent heard nothing. Or the guy was simply as out of breath as he was.

”Motherfucker,” Channer muttered. Kent patted his shoulder.

Thirty more seconds before the powerplay was over. They could keep it up for thirty seconds.

Three hundred, and Kent walked into the dressing room with lead in his legs, met by the sound of French in a voice he could recognise in his sleep in the most embarrassing of ways.

Coach Dejardin shook his head, repeated something that made Jack grip his stick tighter. He was still wearing his gloves, but Kent was willing to bet the knuckles underneath were as pale as his face.

”What’s happening?” he whispered.

Gagny set his jaw. ”Zimmermann is out for now. Too many penalties.”

Kent nodded. It was a good decision, strategy-wise, possibly the only good one in the whole game. Gagny, scorer of the only Océanic goal of the game, had been pulled two minutes before the break was over, leaving Marron to lead on the ice until the period was over. It had almost cost them the goal, and definitely a goalie for the last half of third period. Vixy was only human. Probably.

And putting in the back-up goalie, smooth-cheeked and somehow fresher from peewee than Kent, would be as disastrous as just playing with an empty net.

If only Cheeky hadn’t been so stupid as to get himself injured in the first fucking round.

In the corner, the conversation raised in volume, until coach Dejardin cut Jack off with a short remark that made the other Québecois guys flinch and Jack turn even whiter. For a second, Kent thought he was going to throw up, or punch coach Dejardin in the face, or himself. But then he muttered something low and stalked back to his bench.

”Is he okay?”

”Don’t ask,” Gagny whispered back. ”Best not to.”

In his stall, Jack was breathing, slow and deliberate, like he was keeping down a scream. Or trying not to repeat the disaster of their hazing.

Kent looked away.

Stepping back onto the ice, it was with a cold feeling down the back of his spine that had nothing to do with the water he’d poured on his face moments before. The Moosehead that had checked him earlier sent a toothy grin from across the ice.

They lost the face-off. The puck hit the defensive zone almost by the second pass. Around Vixy, Gagny and Channy were already in place.

”Get to offence!” Kent shouted at Marron, who scowled before setting off towards Vixy.

A swear left Kent’s lips, soundless, _breathless_ , but there was nothing he could do other than follow his own command, run and pray the others could handle themselves.

No horn blew, but a whistle did. Fucking Gagny not being able to handle some chirping. Shitty chirping even, Kent had listened to those fuckers before. Fucking amateurs.

Frustration was like a rash beneath Kent’s skin, itching until he almost snapped himself. Another powerplay was just what they needed to get through. Another powerplay was just what they were _able_ to get through.

A quick glance towards the bench on the way to the face-off circle revealed Dejardin with a face so red Kent feared they’d have a heart attack on their hands before the game was over, and a Jack who might as well be dead for the amount of colour in his face. A walking corpse, and Kent felt little better.

The whistle blew, and he was forced to turn around again.

Another win for the Mooseheads, but a short-lived one. Boomer grabbed the puck off the Moosehead’s stick, sent it to Channer who set off. Parallel to him, Kent ran, too, kept an eye half on the Mooseheads still around and half on the Océanics. Losing the overview meant losing the match, as his old peewee coach had barked more than once. Among other things.

The puck was passed off at centre ice, Channer swirling just in time to avoid a hip-check. Marron wasn’t far off, but before he even got the chance to even shift his stick, a Moosehead had come in from the side and shot the puck back down in the Océanics’ defensive zone to a teammate in waiting.

There were two Océanics near Vixy who had already bent down, head swivelling like a bird at every move of the puck.

Fucking Mooseheads and their _fucking_ strategies.

Ignoring the burn in his thighs, his throat, his entire fucking body, Kent sped forwards, crossed the blue line as the puck made it past the second D-man.

Too late.

The slapshot, which Kent had to admit was objectively fucking gorgeous, sent the puck flying through the air, almost parallel to Vixy diving to the side, right arm stretched out further than seemed physically possible. But necessary. The puck hit his glove, just on the tip of his fingers, and bounced, landed just off the red line, but it was enough.

A roar tore through the crowd as the horn blew, and the Moosehead was gone, pumping his arm in the air in tune.

2-3.

There could still be time. He’d won games with worse odds.

When the puck dropped, it seemed to barely move for what felt like hours, caught between a flurry of sticks until it was suddenly gone. Three seconds later – three precious seconds – Kent saw it disappear behind the leg of a Moosehead, Ander just behind him already ready to intercept. Without wasting any more, Kent set in motion, carried himself just off the side of the ensuing match. There were Mooseheads behind him, but he paid them no mind. A penalty at this point could prove fatal, wouldn’t be a threat for another four minutes.

The puck left the fight without warning, skirted across the ice until an Océanic slapped it away towards the offensive zone. And with it followed Kent, safe distance, no attacks until it was too late to see them coming, more following close behind but never close enough.

A safe few feet from the goalie, a Moosehead D-man lifted his stick, sent the puck to a teammate slightly further away. Right in Kent’s line of trajectory.

He was too exhausted to grin, but there would be time later. For now, he turned on his heel, skirted past a Moosehead close enough to smell his sweat through the layers of gear, eyes on the puck. It hadn’t been shot yet, wouldn’t be for another heartbeat when the Moosehead recovered himself and played into whatever strategy they’d devised, and that would be too late.

Kent’s stick hit the puck straight on, would’ve sent it flying off towards the couple of Océanics already in position behind him, but somehow his calculations must’ve been wrong. The Moosehead’s stick held on, trapped the puck between itself and Kent, between their bodies too close to the boards.

Gritting his teeth, Kent kept his own stick in place, refused to fall beneath the pressure of the Moosehead’ strength, superior as though it was. Superior as it always was. In the chaos, words flowed between them, in French, or English, or fucking Klingon, Kent couldn’t care less. All that mattered was the puck, the other players closing in, the other guy’s stick clashing into his helmet with every move against the puck, the puck that was _not there_ -

Moosehead forgotten, Kent looked around, saw another run towards centre ice, two Océanics in hot pursuit, another Moosehead following just away. He opened his mouth to yell, to get them to open their _fucking_ eyes, but a movement in the corner of his eye halted the words in his throat, threatened to choke him.

A thumb and index finger touching, moving back and forth in a rhythm matching a tongue poking at the inner side of a cheek.

How long they stood like that, him and the Moosehead, all sounds gone, all other movements halted, he had no idea. It couldn’t belong, a couple of seconds at most, but it was enough.

When the noise finally returned, it did so with pain, with the feel of cold air against his bare hand, a jaw, or a cheek, or a fucking _nose_ , the rush of a check, his head slamming into the boards hard enough for his sight to go, for the noise of the rink to meld with a sudden ringing in his ears. The taste of blood on his tongue.

The ice was cold beneath his body, a lifeline of reality in the midst of chaos.

A whistle blew. Or maybe it had already. Hands wrapped around his biceps, helped him to stand, an arm around his shoulders leading him to the bench where Dejardin looked about ready to explode.

Because it had all been a fucking trap, and Kent had been too much of a fucking idiot to get it.

A nurse squatted down in front of him as soon as he came down on the bench, turned his head in her hands and pressed something against his lip. Shined light into his eyes, shook her head at someone Kent couldn’t bother to raise his head to look at.

No concussion. That was something, at least.

On the ice, another whistle blew. If they were lucky, it was another penalty, another Moosehead sent to the sin bin to join his buddy. If it was, they had a chance. If not … 

Kent bit back a groan as the nurse swatted antiseptic on his knuckles. Closed his eyes.

They’d been so fucking close.

For what it was worth, he didn’t hear the horn again, not until it was all over, and only then did Kent allow himself to open his eyes again.

There was no hint of remorse in the Moosehead’s eyes as he shook his hand, of course there wasn’t, and for a moment, Kent considered punching him again. See how the fucker liked that.

The dressing room was quiet as he entered, not as first, not at last. Dejardin was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Jack.

”Parson!” Gagny rose from his bench, face twisted. ”What the fuck was that out there?”

The words echoed through the room, bounced off the walls and off Kent who shrugged. It wouldn’t matter what he said.

Before he could make it to his stall, Gagny grabbed his arm, hard enough to make him wince through the padding. ”Look at me when I am fucking talking to you, tapette!”

Kent tore his arm free, a retort hot on his tongue where it stayed.

”You do not get to pull that kind of shit on the ice,” Gagny continued. ”I do not care if you are some fucking prodigy or not, you do not, _none of you_ , get to pull that kind of shit! I do not care how much you are provoked, we need every last man on the ice in a game like that!”

”You didn’t fucking see what he did.”

”Of course I fucking saw! We all fucking saw! But you cannot react like that! Grow some thicker fucking skin if you want to stay in hockey!”

And again, the taste of blood, of fury, of resignation.

“Got it.”

Gagny nodded, turned back to his own stall. And Kent went to his, pulled off his gear with his eyes firmly on the bench, ignored the sting in them. There was blood on his jersey sleeves. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed that.

*

Back in the hotel, Kent found Jack fast asleep in their room with the covers drawn up to his ears. A half-empty glass of water stood on the night stand next to his phone. His breaths were slow and even, matched the rise and fall of the duvet.

Kent didn’t turn the lights on.

*

”I would’ve done the same,” Jack whispered the morning after, once more sat next to him on the bus. ”But I wouldn’t have pulled my punches.” His eyes were hard, his jaw set, but after a moment it mellowed out. Not a smile. Not that day. ”We’ll make it next year.”

”Next year,” Kent repeated, tried not to notice how Jack’s right shoulder pressed against his left in the narrow seats and failed not to hate himself for it.

It would fade. He knew that. The loss, the disappointment, the echo of a broken hope. With time, it would all be forgotten, and better things would take its place. The victories born from the blood now shed. For now, he just had to get through it. One breath at a time, one meal, one night’s sleep. The light of a new day.

” - me visit.”

Kent blinked. ”Sorry?”

”Visit,” Jack repeated. ”You could come by. Before you leave. Or when you come back. Euh, if you want to. Maman and Papa would love it, and you can swim in the rink when it’s not frozen.”

The light of a new fucking day indeed. ”Are you serious?”

”Yes?” Jack wasn’t frowning. Kent didn’t know what to call his expression, but it wasn’t a frown. ”Only if you want to. No pressure.”

Kent grinned, at his face, at the choice of words clearly borrowed from somewhere he didn’t quite trust. ”Of course I’ll come! You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Zimms.”

”Zimms?”

”You’re gonna get so fucking tired of me,” Kent continued. ”You’ll be shaking in your jock strap when the season starts up again, just you wait.”

A beat of silence, and then Jack laughed, a soft and quiet sound that went straight to Kent’s gut. Or something a little bit above it. Or below. ”Sure, Kenny. Let’s see about that.”

Kent’s grin widened, and he punched Jack’s arm, received a small one back. The touch was light, so utterly platonic, but still Kent’s treacherous heart jumped up his throat in a way that might prove itself a problem if he wasn’t careful. Jack’s hand returned to its place in his lap, and for a moment, Kent let himself wonder what it would feel like in his. Rough, no doubt. Hockey was an unforgiving sport in more ways than one, and so Kent’s hand didn’t even twitch. He looked away.

That was one more thing he was just going to have to deal with. He’d managed before. He could do it again.

He was young. He was allowed to make mistakes.


	2. 2007/08

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kent experiences teenage angst, kisses Jack Zimmermann, and nails a one-timer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second year in the Q!
> 
> Warnings: more panic attacks, one (1) scene with some brief masturbation, my abysmal continental French, and the general warnings from chapter 1. Also underage drinking, but as someone from a country where alcohol laws are a bit of a joke, I tend to forget about that.
> 
> Brought to you by Troye Sivan's entire discography, Blue Neighbourhood in particular.

“You sure you don’t mind? We can wait – another year at least, or until you’re drafted.”

Kent glanced up, resisted the urge to sigh. Or snap. ”I’m sure, Ma. Would I be packing if I did?”

In the doorway, his ma thinned her lips, rubbed the swell of her belly. Three more months. “This is just so sudden.”

Moving back to the box in front of him, Kent stuffed down another book. “It’s fine. I’ve moved out already, remember? I’m just visiting. And Thomas’ll appreciate being around his grandparents.”

“We’re not calling him Thomas.”

“Good. And I don’t mind.”

“You’re not packing very much.”

“I have what I need in Rimouski. You know, where I live now.”

His Ma sighed, shifted her weight. “We can go there before you leave, if you’d like. Just us two.”

“To Maryland?”

“It’s real nice this time of year. We could go to the beach.”

“You just wanna show off those tits.”

“Obviously. But I’m serious. We could work on our freckles.”

“Didn’t Ben say he needed to fix the house before you move in?”

“We’ll just bunk out in the living room. Get some sleeping bags. There’s electricity.”

“Ma, you’re not sleeping on a fucking floor.”

“I think there’s a couch.”

“Avery won’t like that.”

A foot hit the back of his leg. “I’m serious.”

“Ben’ll miss ya.”

“Ben’ll have to deal.”

Coach Walker had called him stubborn once. It might even have been a compliment. “I’d prefer to stay here. In New York. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He hadn’t meant for the last part to come out bitter. He really hadn’t.

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

For a second, he thought she might try and kiss the crown of his head. Instead, a hand came down, ruffled his hair. And then she was gone.

When he was in the NHL, he could go back to New York as he pleased. Get an apartment there.

Perhaps it would start feeling like home again if he did.

-/ \\-

The rink hadn’t changed. Same air, same ice, same old zamboni. Same people.

“Parser.”

“Channer.”

A beat of silence, broken by Kent raising his chin and Channer grinning like a maniac. “Bro, did you get taller or something? You almost look like a real hockey player now.”

“And you almost look like a real boy.”

“I’m serious, people might stop thinking you’re our manager now.”

With a decidedly unmanly shriek, Channer was pulled into a headlock, and Kent found himself grinning into his hair as he tried to wiggle free. A twenty-pound weight difference couldn’t do a thing against technique, even if the twenty pounds did their best.

”Let go of Chan, Kenny.”

Kent’s stomach flipped, and Channer pulled himself loose.

”’sup, Zimms. When didja get here?”

Jack shrugged. If Kent didn’t know better, he’d think he’d gotten taller as well. There was more muscle, that was for sure; the last of the baby fat on his cheeks was starting to melt off, giving a beginning glimpse of cheekbones that might one day rival his Maman’s. His hair was shaggier, too, like he hadn’t bothered cutting it over the summer. Not that there was anything Jack couldn’t get away with. Not with those eyes.

And wasn’t that just a shit show he’d hoped the summer would get rid of.

”Just now.”

“You’re usually early, though. So is Parser,” Channer said. Kent had almost forgotten he was there.

”It’s the first day. I need to welcome the rookies,” Jack answered. His hand had moved to his bicep, rubbed at it. Moved back to his side.

Curious.

”Zimms, is there something you haven’t told me?”

Jack looked away. Kent raised an eyebrow. Jack’s hand came to rub at his neck.

”Do you guys have some sort of mind meld going on right now? Am I missing a prodigy-only telepathy-happening?”

Jack glanced to Kent, then back at Channer. ”I don’t think that’s a thing.”

”So what’s happening?”

”Euh.” Another glance. ”I got the A?”

The look on his face was so adorably confused Kent almost had to restrain himself not to grab him and press their mouths together until Jack melted under his touch. Or pushed him away in disgust.

”You got the fucking A? That’s so fucking awesome, dude!”

”Yeah,” Kent echoed. ”Congratulations, Zimms.”

It wasn’t a blush on his cheekbones, but it was a close fucking thing. “Thanks.”

”Who got the C?” Channer asked, looked around as if the guy could jump out of the shadows any minute and announce himself, waving banner and all.

“Marron.”

Kent closed his eyes.

”How the hell did he make captain?”

Jack shrugged. ”Coach must have thought he’d do a good job.”

”That’s fucking bullshit.”

Kent agreed. There was a reason he was the only guy on the team without a nickname. Apart from Jack. ”Of course Coach chose Marron. He needs _someone_ on the team on his side.”

Channer snorted.

”It is what it is,” Jack said, hands now in his pockets.

“It doesn’t matter,” Kent said. “I mean, we pretty much ignored Gagny last season, didn’t we?”

Jack didn’t answer, but Channer let out another snort. “Fuck, I haven’t thought about that motherfucker in months. Did he even get drafted?”

“He went to the Sharks,” Jack said. “They pushed him down, though.”

Channer hummed. “Won’t miss ‘im. He took all of my goals last season.”

“What goals?”

The hit was light, and Kent grinned back.

“This season,” Channer promised. “I’mma make some goals.”

“They’d have to build ‘em bigger.”

“Oh, _fuck_ you.”

The second hit was harder, took the feel in Kent’s fingers for a couple of seconds, but Channer was grinning, and so was he. Jack, even. Not as wide as the two of them, but it was there, and Kent’s stomach did another flip.

Well shit.

*

Two days later found them at the first party of the year (”to welcome the fucking rookies, Zimmermann, calm the fuck down!”), at the house of a D-man Kent couldn’t for the life of him remember the name of. Barely seen on the ice. Still, he showed up, beer bought from someone who didn’t ask any questions in hand and a smirk on his face he’d spent the summer practising.

In the hallway, Cookie greeted him with with a slap-back hug and a large, drunk grin. How he managed to get it up to hook up as much as he said he did, Kent had no idea.

Accepting a beer, another clap on his back, he made it to the living room, all but colliding with a blonde little thing on her way out. Green eyes met his, startling in the low light, glinting above a slowly curling smile.

Behind her, a guy Kent vaguely recognised as one of the rookies – Macmillan? Macintosh? - glanced over, snapped to attention at the sight of the girl before looking up to meet Kent’s eyes. With a grin eerily similar to hers, he made a cupping gesture at his own chest.

She did have nice tits. Round and heavy, the cups of her bra just visible in the neckline of a bright yellow top. And Kent wasn’t blind, he could recognise a pretty girl when he saw one. Knew what other guys did to them in private. What he was supposed to do.

And so, when warm hands snaked around his wrists, pulled him to a couch, he followed. Didn’t say a word when she all but plopped down in his lap. She smelled nice.

“You come here often?”

She frowned, and he repeated himself, watched another smile curl at her lip. ”Nope. Just tonight.”

”A one-night special, eh?”

”I thought you were American.”

Recognised, then. That was new. Not unpleasant. “Gotta fit in.”

She snickered. “Why?”

And he smirked, let a finger run up the length of her arm - no hair, didn’t girls have hair, too? - and leaned in, breath ghosting over her ear. “So the other guys forget how much better than them I am.”

From above her shoulder, a couple of Océanics were standing by a wall. Glancing over every other second. Probably sneaking a peek down the girl’s top.

We can get down like there’s no one around, Britney sang, and Kent closed his eyes, tried to focus on the sticky sweetness of her lips against his own. Kissing back was an instinct, new and unexplored, but an instinct nonetheless.

Not as bad as Melanie. This girl really, _really_ wasn’t Melanie.

And she wasn’t Jack.

Their teeth clacked together as Kent moved his hand to her waist, but she swiftly angled them better, took over the kiss in a way that left Kent an illusion of control that other guys probably loved.

It wasn’t bad.

When they pulled apart, Kent was shocked to find himself slightly out of breath and the girl with far too much saliva on her chin. He cringed, covered it up with a smirk and a hand on her thigh, thumb caressing just off the cut-off of her jeans.

“I’m on my period,” she said, and it took Kent a moment too long to recognise it for what it was.

“Cool,” he said, cemented it with a peck to the corner of her mouth. “See ya around.”

With one last kiss, he stood up, smoothed down his shirt where it had crumbled slightly in her grip and spared a last glance at the guys at the wall. Most of them were gone. Probably for the best.

Grabbing a solo cup from the kitchen, Kent found himself walking the house, staying out of what looked like bedrooms and one room that couldn’t be called anything other than a fucking library. Eventually, he made it back to the living room, gave out a couple of fist bumps, a laugh at a guy spilling his beer all over his shirt, a smirk at a girl looking his way.

It all stopped when he caught a glimpse of dark hair and a dark blue Océanics t-shirt, and something fluttered in his stomach that he wasn’t sure he could blame on the alcohol. Still, he downed the last of his cup before making his way over, squirming around the sea of bodies, gently shrugging off a hand on his arm before throwing himself down on the couch next to Jack. Same couch as with the girl. Unless they had more than one couch. He glanced around. They did.

Rich motherfuckers.

”What’s up?”

”The sky,” Jack replied, a loose grin already on his face, a flush on his cheekbones. His hair needed to be washed.

Kent snickered. ”Nice one.”

They sat in silence for a moment, not close enough to touch, but close enough for the heat of Jack’s body to warm up Kent’s left side. Fucking Canadians.

”She was pretty.”

Kent shrugged. ”I guess.”

”What was her name?”

”Don’t remember.”

”That’s not nice.”

”It doesn’t matter.”

” … guess not.”

Jack took another swig of beer. Kent looked away.

On the other side of the room, Marron moved in on a girl with pigtails and a bright pink sweater who smiled back in fake politeness. A snort left Kent as she finally ducked under the arm he was leaning against the wall. Jack glanced over, followed his line of sight, made a small noise of his own. If Kent didn’t know better, he’d think it to be sympathy. Or second-hand fear.

The girl came to a halt in a doorway, looked around briefly before blanching at the sight of Marron in the crowd, eyes firmly on her. Before he could take another step in her direction, she bolted.

Kent opened his mouth, almost choked on whatever words were forming as Jack’s body dropped slightly towards him. He regained his balance before Kent could move to help him, but not without a steadying hand on Kent’s upper arm.

“Sorry.”

Long ‘o’, voice rough, and Kent nodded, tried not to think of how warm Jack’s hand was. Thanked his past self for the foresight not to have had any more to drink than he had. “All good, buddy.”

Jack nodded, downed another mouthful of beer before falling back against the couch with a sigh.

The song changed. Jack’s face scrunched up.

”What, y’don’t like Pit Bull?”

”I think I need to vomit.”

Nothing more attractive than that.

Before Kent had the chance to put down his beer, Jack was gone from the couch, lost somewhere in the crowd.

”Jesus fucking Christ,” Kent muttered and set after him.

The bathroom door was half-ajar when he found him, hunched over a toilet bowl with the complexion of a ghost and vomit on his shirt.

”Jesus Christ, Zimms,” Kent repeated and got down next to him, kicked the door shut on his way down. His hands found Jack’s hair - that really was getting too fucking shaggy, was that vomit? - and pulled it away from his face. ”’m right here withya.”

Jack’s entire body rolled as he coughed again. Trying not to wince, Kent moved a hand to gently rub circles onto his back. ”Right here withya.”

Eventually, after what felt like hours but was maybe two songs, Jack fell back against the wall, and Kent fetched him a glass of water. ”Drink up. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Jack accepted the glass with a slightly trembling hand. At least it was only his hand.

”You’re kind of an idiot, y’know that?”

”Sorry,” Jack croaked. He’d gone pale again, almost green in the artificial light. A fucking furnace beneath Kent’s hand still on his back.

He pulled it back. ”No worries, man.”

-/ \\-

The second period hit had been hard, enough to make Kent grit his teeth as he skated onto the ice for third as a bolt of pain shot up through his angle. Not broken, he would’ve felt that, but getting the skate off was going to be a _bitch_. If the Gatineau Olympiques got that much stronger in their defence every summer, Kent wouldn’t last long enough to be drafted, that was for fucking sure.

Good thing their offence was still shit.

Cheeky caught the puck with what almost looked like ease, pushed it towards Tremmer mid-run. Taking a few steps back, Kent circumvented an Olympique, made his way towards the offensive zone but came to a halt just short off where he’d usually go. Another team would forgive him for toeing the blue line. The Olympiques wouldn’t.

From his spot near the goal – too near, probably why their attacks were so weak – a D-man sent him a glare, moved a couple of steps forward. On the other side of the rink, his partner did the same to Jack.

Kent bit the inside of his cheek not to grin.

Next to the boards, an Olympique was battling Channer for the puck, and Kent took a step forward, another to the side as the puck shot off. Pushing out his stick, he caught it on the edge, wasted no time passing to Jack. Prayed he’d seen it, too.

Within seconds, the puck returned, as did the urge to grin. Instead, Kent pushed himself forward, angled his stick as if to shoot, then passed, received seconds later as Jack did the same. From the corner of his eye, Channer stepped forward, but the angle was wrong. Kent glanced to the other side. Cookie was moving in, not quite quick enough, but it had to do. With a flick of the wrist, Kent sent the puck towards him before catching one of the D-men’s attention.

As expected, the puck flew over the blue line, not heading for him but for Jack, kept a whistle from blowing as Kent stepped over, too, eyes as much on the puck as on the D-man now turning his head towards the new line of attack. His partner had turned, too, zoning in on Jack who kept his eyes on the goal.

Perfect.

Moments before the hit, Kent feigned avoiding the D-man, threw in a swear while he was at it, all the while never taking his eyes off Jack. He’d have to pass swiftly, Kent was in perfect line of the goal, both D-men’s attention off – fuck, even the goalie was distracted.

The puck sailed through the air, hit a split second before Jack collided with one of the D-man. It wasn’t a hit, no threat of penalties, but the damage had been done. Between the pipes, the goalie threw himself down, knocked the puck out of the air and back onto the ice with his shoulder.

A rush of adrenaline, of _anger_ , tore through Kent’s body, but there was no time. The goalie had seen him, a D-man’s head swivelled, too, and he had seconds. Less.

As Kent skated forward, ankle throbbing in a way that made his teeth ache, the goalie reached for his stick, dropped in the saving mere seconds before. There was no time to pull it up, build a proper defence, but he didn’t need it. A slash at Kent’s leg – easily an accident, hockey was fast, details were missed – sent him sprawling down on the ice, the hit echoing through his skull. Inches from the puck.

It was a blind reach, flashes of black and blue already too fucking close, a last attempt before a whistle blew. An odd angle, impossible to put any kind of strength in, but a hit nonetheless, a touch, a puck skirting the last couple of inches beneath the goalie’s outstretched leg, coming to a halt just off the red line.

Above them, moments before a body, two, came crashing down onto him, a horn blew, and for the seconds, minutes, _hours_ it took for the dog pile to be dismantled, Kent let the relief flow through him, push away the adrenaline. The pain.

“Bench,” someone said, and Kent didn’t fight them. Hands clasped on his arms, pulled him up. Cookie was there almost immediately, slung an arm around Kent’s back and knocked their helmets together. Didn’t say a word when Kent leaned most of his weight on him as they made their way across the ice.

Dejardin spared him exactly one glance. “Good job.”

The hit must have been harder than he thought. “Thanks, coach.”

There was no going back, not for ten more minutes, and no need to speak of it. 4-2. No need for him.

On the ice, a new face-off was being set up, Jack lingering just behind it before getting into position. He didn’t look up.

A hand tapped Kent on the arm, handed him a water bottle. He gave a small smile in return before pouring the water onto his face.

It was one game. One fuck-up. Jack would come to his senses again.

4-2.

The dressing room was loud, all but ecstatic. As if they’d just gotten the first win of the season. Not the fourth.

”Did we look like that last year?” Channer asked, one arm slung around Kent’s shoulder, nodding towards the rookies all but huddled together in the corner they’d been herded into the year before. They were part of the celebration, but the divide was clear. The insecurity hidden behind layers and layers of bravado.

”Hope not.”

”Fucking pathetic.”

Kent hummed, eyes darting to the other side of the dressing room where Jack was methodically stripping himself of gear, back to the celebration. As if he wasn’t part of it, despite that first period goal.

“Fuck, I think Marron’s gonna give a speech.”

Kent looked away. “You’re kidding.”

He wasn’t. Kent snorted, patted Channer’s shoulder and turned back to his stall. It took seconds to stuff his gear down into the bag, smooth out the jersey on top, the shark bearing its teeth at him as the zip closed. He was out before Marron could get further than two sentences.

Some things just weren’t fucking worth it.

Exhaustion was beginning to creep in, taking over from adrenaline, the relief. The rest of the feelings drowned by ice and the taste of victory. Or loss. Victory this time.

Wincing slightly at the pull in his ankle, Kent hitched his bag further up his shoulder. It wasn’t a long walk to the bus stop, from there to the Bouchard house, but he still wasn’t looking forward to it. Perhaps he should’ve taken Bernie up on that offer of a lift after all - 

Turning a corner, a body nearly collided with his, and Kent felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, gone as swiftly as it came as brown eyes – warm, always warm – met his.

“Kent, what a lovely surprise,” Bad Bob Zimmermann smiled. “Still walking without using your eyes, eh?”

“Sorry, just tired.”

“Understandable,” a second man said, and Bad Bob nodded. Same age, Kent noticed, but that was where the resemblance ended. The other man was dull, grey eyes, grey hair, grey suit. Small. Not a hockey player, retired or otherwise. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone skate that fast.”

“Kent’s secret weapon,” Bad Bob said with what sounded like a tinge of pride. Kent must have been more exhausted than he thought. “And one hell of a goal you made in third period. One of a kind.”

“Truly,” the other man agreed. “Risky, though. You could’ve gotten one hell of an injury, kid.”

“That’s hockey,” Bad Bob said. “Kent, this is Henri Molyneux, he’s Jack’s agent. Henri, Kent Parson.”

Agent. Explained the clammy hands. “Nice to meetcha.”

“You, too. I can’t say I’ve never heard of you, though. Stats like yours … “ Molyneux made a clicking noise with his tongue. “I don’t think I’ve heard the name of your agent, though.”

“I don’t have one yet. Haven’t had the time.” _Or the money_.

Molyneux’s eyebrows rose, but before he could say anything, Bad Bob’s grin widened at something behind Kent. Someone.

“Papa,” Jack said, a slight hint of surprise in his voice. The grip on his bag strap tightened. “Henri.”

“Hey, Jack,” Molyneux smiled as Bad Bob stepped forward to give his son a quick hug. “Good game.”

“Very,” Bad Bob agreed. “Beaut of a goal in first period. We were just talking about Kent’s goal before you came, the one in the third period. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rebound like that.”

He smiled at Kent again, who felt the tips of his ears warm. At least Jack hadn’t inherited that smile.

“It was a good goal,” Jack said, eyes firmly on the floor, voice an even firmer monotone.

“Nearly broke my arm,” Kent complained, earned himself a laugh. Jack remained quiet.

“Still a beaut,” Bad Bob said and kicked his son lightly in the shin. “Imagine how good it would’ve been if you’d passed instead of shooting, though. Kent was completely free. You would’ve saved him that dog pile.”

Jack nodded, glanced up at Kent before returning his eyes to the floor. “Sorry.”

“All good. We won, didn’t we?”

“You sure did,” Molyneux said. “And as much as I would love to go through the entire game, I’m afraid my wife might kill me.”

The adults laughed. Jack’s knuckles had turned white.

A poke to his arm drew Kent’s eyes back to Molyneux, then down at the card held out to him.

“You’ve got talent, Parson. Give me a call some time. And don’t worry about the money,” he added, glancing down at Kent’s jacket. “We can figure something out when you’re in the NHL.”

Resisting the urge to cross his arms across his chest, Kent accepted the card, gave him a smirk back. No backing down. No weakness. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

Molyneux nodded. “Again, good game, boys. Get some sleep. Remember to stretch.”

“Will do,” Kent said. Jack muttered something, nearly flinched when his father’s arm came around his shoulder.

“We should get home, too. Would you like a lift?”

Kent opened his mouth, glanced at Jack. “I’m fine walking. But thanks.”

“Not on that ankle you’re not. And I would rather not let you.”

“In that case - “ Kent hitched the bag further up his shoulder. Considered asking Jack if he should carry his. “ - thanks. Really.”

“It’s no problem,” Bad Bob replied, free arm coming around Kent’s shoulder. “We can’t have you injured this early in the season.”

His arm was warm, the polar opposite of the dog tags against Kent’s chest, and he had to resist the urge to lean into the touch.

If that was what having a father was like, perhaps he really was missing out.

-/ \\-

His Ma sent the first pictures in September. The new house, white and old-fashioned, two stories. A swing in the slightly overgrown garden. His boxes in a room with a tree just outside of the window. Perfect for climbing.

Kent couldn’t remember ever climbing trees.

_nice place_ , he wrote back anyway. And it was. _u bn 2 the beach yet?_

_2 many waves. ill wait 4 u <3_

Kent sent her a picture of the bay in Sydney, ignored Channer’s chirps.

_2 many waves here 2_

The other pictures, the ones sent in October – twelfth, Columbus day, because his Ma was nothing if not consistent – he didn’t reply to.

“You good, man?”

“All good,” he replied without looking up, eyes caught on the tiny, _impossibly_ tiny baby swapped in a pale yellow blanket. His face was scrunched up, tiny fists nearly hidden by the too-large onesie. A small hint of curls peeked out from the hat he was wearing.

_we’re thinking Miles_

Better than Harold.

Ben had sent pictures, too, no words, just his Ma in a hospital bed with her hair in disarray, her hospital gown half-open and a look of exhaustion and pure happiness on her face. The baby – Miles – his _brother_ – was in her arms, mouth open in what was either a yawn or a cry. There was bruising on his face, and if Kent squinted, he could see the outline of an umbilical stump.

“Who’s that?”

The instinct to turn off his phone, hide it away, was strong, but Kent did a half-hearted shrug instead. “My cousin. She just gave birth.”

“I can see that.” Cookie made a noise. “Black daddy?”

Kent’s voice didn’t waver. “Yup.”

Another noise. “Who’s Ben?”

“My stepdad.”

“Cool.” A hand came down on his shoulder. “Congrats.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as he was gone, Kent shoved the phone down in his bag, went back to the workout machinery. A few feet down, Jack was finishing up his reps. For a moment – not long, never long – Kent let himself look, appreciate the strain in his biceps, the bit of thigh not covered by basketball shorts, the way his pecs looked with a t-shirt stretched across it. As Jack put down the bar, raised himself to sit, Kent looked away.

“Need a spotter?”

Out of breath. Kent’s stomach flipped. “Sure.”

Laying down, Jack came to stand next to him, still flushed, relaxed for once. Kent glanced away, focused on picking the weight. Had it been anyone else, he would’ve said no, wouldn’t care for the chirps on the amount. But Jack wouldn’t chirp him for that.

Squaring his shoulders, Kent got to work.

“Were you okay back there? With McCook.”

“Yeah. I just don’t like discussing family shit with teammates, y’know.”

“I know.”

And of course he did. Jack Zimmermann, tabloid fodder since birth. Son of a legend.

“Do you … do you want to talk about it? With me?”

_With me_ , as if Jack was different, and he was, he really was, but still – still, he _wasn’t_. “Not really. It’s nothing serious.”

“Oh. Okay.”

As if Kent had kicked him. And by God, he was pathetic. “My Ma gave birth today. To my brother.”

“And that’s … a bad thing?”

Kent opened his mouth, closed it again. Jack was his friend. Wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t. Asked because he _was_. “It’s just new. And I don’t feel like anyone asking how old she was when she had me.”

Seventeen, and if Jack’s face was anything to go by, he got that. When he’d been younger, the understanding had made Kent angry, had made him punch and kick and be sent to the principal's office where his Ma was called. The shame of having her pulled in, the looks she’d be given, were always worse than whatever bruises he’d gotten from the fights. Worse than the anger.

He hadn’t been in a fight outside of hockey since he was fourteen.

And somehow, Jack got that, too.

His arms had started to hurt, never quite strong enough for how much Kent wished he could push them, how much coaches through the years had told him he had to, but the shame there was long gone. He had his precision. His loose wrists. Nothing else mattered, he’d made sure of that long ago. He, the king of lies.

“Stop looking at me … like that, Zimms.”

“Like what, Kenny?”

“Like you’re gonna … snatch this thing outta my hands.”

“I’m just ready to catch it.”

“I won’t … drop it.”

“Of course not. I’m just here in case.”

Kent grit his teeth, breathed through the burn in his arms, lifted the bar again. One inch at a time. One _fucking_ inch, and then one more.

“You’re there, Kenny. Kenny, you can – crisse!”

Whatever happened, it was too swift for Kent to get until it was over. The sweat of his palms, the burn in his arms, the bar slipping and suddenly gone from his grasp, held in Jack’s above his head. Too close.

He swallowed. “Thanks.”

Jack nodded, placed the bar in place with a little more care than necessary. “You’re welcome.”

“Don’t tell the others ‘bout that.”

A grin, nervous, sweaty, _brilliant_. “I won’t.”

“Awesome.” His arms were still shaking, and so Kent pulled himself up with his legs, shook the feeling back in before grabbing his water bottle. He hadn’t noticed the others leaving. “You done for today, or … ?”

“I’m done.”

“Cool. Me, too.” He took a swig of water. “It’s our turn to take out the trash today, isn’t it?”

Jack grimaced. “Yeah.”

“And you won’t let me off?”

“Sorry.”

“Zimms, I’m too pretty for trash.”

“Didn’t you call yourself trash last week?”

“You must’ve misheard me, I probably called _you_ trash.”

“Fuck you,” Jack muttered.

“Gladly.”

Jack’s eyes widened, and Kent stuck out his tongue, brought a v of his fingers up around it. The look on Jack’s face made him bark out a laugh. Still grinning, he picked up the trash bags, tossed one to Jack.

King of lies indeed. Kent wasn’t sure when he’d last told that many truths in a row.

In a moment of bravery, or stupidity, or plain old faggot-ry, he placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Hey, Zimms … good workout.”

“Oh.” Jack blinked. “Thanks. Yeah. You, too.”

And Kent could’ve kissed him. Of course he could, and of course he wouldn’t.

-/ \\-

The puck flew through the air, a beautiful parable ending on Cheeky’s glove. Almost as soon as it hit the ice again, Channer’s stick was in place, a rounding pass that sent the puck straight past Kent and to a guy who proceeded to cross centre ice. With a bit-in swear, Kent dug in his heel, came to a halt inches from the blue line before pushing forward. There was nothing he could do, not with an offence as quick as that, but he could try.

There was no horn, not in a practice, and Kent would never get used to that, not after experiencing it in games, but there was no doubt as to what had happened. Tremmer’s face said it all, Macs’ with it. The timing had been perfect, three guys in orange shirts and a goalie with too little ice time under his belt. At least their strategies worked.

Marron won the ensuing face-off after a couple of intense seconds, and Kent followed just behind the puck. An orange-clad Océanic was following closely, too closely, but Dejardin had given his orders, and Kent needed to prepare for the game play other teams were setting into motion. He just had to be creative.

Turning on his heel halfway to the offensive zone, Kent caught the puck passed his way, brought it forward another couple of feet before letting go. A tight wrist shot, a mid-run reception that left little to no pause, an immediate pass to Marron. Another pass back to Macs, and the two crossed the blue line, Kent milliseconds behind.

With one last pass, Marron raised his stick. Between the pipes, Cheeky’s body was angled fully towards him, and with the attention diverted, Kent upped his speed, took a turn behind the goal. Marron shot – not bad, but too close, too late – and with a step to the side, a glove held out, Cheeky blocked again.

And that was Kent’s cue. Marron’s stick was raised again, but he paid him no mind, ignored the yelling, just turned the puck on his stick and skated away from the offensive zone.

It was a reckless strategy, even he knew that, but what else were practices for?

Behind him, the sound of skates hitting ice mixed with breathing got ever closer, and Kent waited until they were just behind him before hitting down a skate on the ice, turning, speeding past the confused orange-clad players. The hole had been lucky, but Kent was small, and Kent had watched hours upon hours of hockey since he was a tiny child. Patterns always repeated. Their momentum would carry them forward, enough for the defence to be all but down for at least a couple of seconds, and that was all he’d need. That was all he ever needed.

A little further ahead – and God bless his slow ass – Macs received the puck passed to him, brought it across the blue line in time for Kent to push forward and find his spot.

One pass, a slapshot, and the puck sailed through the air once more, lower this time, too low for Cheeky to catch.

Kent smirked.

At the boards, Dejardin yelled out. “69, off! 1, in!”

A small tumble in his chest, a drop of adrenaline almost indiscernible in the sea already present as Macs skated towards the bench, jumped over the railing inches from Jack. A yelp rose from the bench as he lost balance halfway over, but Jack didn’t look back. He caught Kent’s eye, briefly, enough to send a small current of electricity down his spine.

So _fucking_ blue.

The spell broke when someone knocked into him from behind. ”Mangeux de couilles.”

”Fuck you, too,” Kent muttered back, instinct at this point.

Marron just skated off, whispered something to Jack, too, as they crossed each other on the way to the face-off circle. When they bent down, Kent wasn’t sure if it was fear he could see in Jack’s eyes, or if he wanted to pull off his skate and stab Marron with it, like his father had once tried in a game.

Before the answer could show itself – and wouldn’t he just have loved to see that – the puck dropped, and all other thoughts disappeared.

Catching the puck practically off Marron’s stick, Jack set off, a tail of orange on his heel that he paid no mind. Kent followed from a safe distance, alone for once, ready for the split-second passes they’d had to perfect.

Only it never came, not with one orange player knocking his shoulder into Jack’s inches into the offensive zone, and another stealing the puck from beneath them. Setting his jaw, Kent followed him, both too close to the boards – all three, a second orange Océanic – and suddenly Marron, body between the two and stick pushing the puck out. Kent dashed forward, but an orange Océanics made it there first, passed to a teammate just off the side.

Wrong teammate. He should’ve chosen the one without a D-man up his ass.

Kent sped ahead, waited for the orange Océanic to pass to someone else – desperate, too quick, _sloppy_ \- then threw himself in the trajectory. The puck hit his chest, bounced onto the ice once before he scooped it up, gone before anyone could get close enough to fight him for it. Jack was already moving ahead, not even sparing one glance back.

Something warm swelled in Kent’s chest, something he didn’t have the fucking time for, and so it was brutally squashed back down. No time for distractions, not even in practice.

An orange player came up around centre ice, and Kent passed off the puck, took it back a second later on his way forward. In the offence, Jack was shoulder to shoulder with a D-man, not quite fighting, but close. They’d have to be quick.

Keeping an eye on the orange players – and how were there that fucking many of them, there shouldn’t be – Kent lifted his stick ever so slightly, ready for another wrist shot at a moment’s notice. The not-fight in the offensive zone was escalating, slowly but surely, and the other D-man’s eyes locked on him.

Another shot of adrenaline tore through him. “Zimms!”

Jack turned, as did the D-man next to him.

Kent passed the puck to Marron, followed it, evaded the other D-man completely. On the other side, too near the centre, but not fatally, he grabbed it back. By the goal, Jack was watching intently, and the D-man took his chance. It wasn’t a hard check, but enough for Jack to stumble out of balance.

A swear burning on his tongue, in his throat, Kent passed to Marron again, skated past an orange player with his stick out, motioned for the puck to be returned to him. Marron, the motherfucker, but for once a motherfucking professional, passed it back without hesitance.

In the offensive zone, the fight had died out, and pale blue eyes found his, gone the moment after as he took a sharp turn to the right, lifted his stick.

There were fifteen feet between them, too fucking much, but - 

A quick calculation, the right angle, the harsh, sudden turn of a wrist, and the puck flew inches above the ice to the end of Jack’s stick coming down. Cheeky threw himself to the side, stick abandoned, but it was too late.

”Holy shit,” someone muttered, and it might have been himself. Just off the goal, Jack turned, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

It had worked.

It had worked, and in that moment, the second where time stood still, he knew he’d never forget it.

And he was right. The memory would always be there; when a decade had gone by, when he was so drunk he couldn’t even remember his Ma’s face, and when his heart felt like it was being ripped into thousands of tiny pieces that would never quite grow back together. It was a sunrise, and Kent was ready to burn with it.

The moment was shattered by a body colliding with his, blue and white, _Jack_ , the two of them a mess of jerseys and sticks and helmets clanking together, pressed so close that each breath was felt rather than heard. A flush was riding high on Jack’s cheeks, spread far apart by the grin dominating his face, and Kent wanted nothing more than to shrug off his gloves, grab him by those inevitably cold cheeks and kiss him until neither of them could breathe anymore. Because Jack had felt it, too, and -

They were apart again, off to centre ice with Dejardin barking orders in the distance. Kent didn’t look to see if Jack’s knees were shaking as much as his own.

They didn’t do it again, a wordless agreement, but every time they passed each other, a glance passed with it. An understanding.

After the game, Dejardin pulled them both aside. ”You get that working for a game, you let me know. Those little fuckers will not know what hit them.”

”Saturday,” Jack announced as soon as they were alone.

Kent nodded. Saturday. They could get it done by Saturday.

*

Timing was key, Kent reminded himself five nights later, as a Rempart skated past him, nearly ramming into the glass to his right when he swerved. Timing and keeping a clear head, finding that sweet spot between Jack raising his stick and the defence’s confusion fading. All Kent had to do was wait and shoot. It should work, as it had the hundred times they had practised it, he and Jack, in the early mornings and late evenings and with Channer swearing on the side.

So of course it didn’t.

Jack sped forward, both D-men’s attention on him, and Kent had to be fast, and he was. A stick lifted, and Kent’s followed it. The right angle, the right moment, the right amount of power.

The puck flew across the ice, Jack’s stick came down, hit air. A second later, the puck hit the boards, bounced back onto the ice where it lay for an absurd amount of time before a Rempart picked it up, shot it back.

Kent hadn’t moved. Neither had Jack.

To the crowd, to the fucking _Remparts_ , it must have looked fucking hilarious.

The Océanics didn’t laugh.

“We’ll try again,” Kent said. Jack just nodded, skated past him towards the face-off circle.

And they did – Jack ahead, stick up, angle, moment, power - 

Miss.

The puck hit the boards, Jack hit the air, and Kent punched the boards.

“Again,” Jack said - ordered - and Kent didn’t even have time to nod before he was gone.

Later, in the dressing room, when all was quiet and nothing calm, Jack threw his stick into the wall. One of the rookies sent him a glance, more worried than anything else, but Jack saw nothing. The stick was picked back up again, only to be smashed down on the floor properly. When it finally snapped, on the third hit, Kent was almost relieved.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing to talk about that couldn’t wait until Monday.

*

23.01. From ’Ma’

_Good game!_

_u’ll get em next time!_

_i love u_

23.51. To ’Ma’

_thnx_

*

Monday came and went, with no words, and no one-timer. They didn’t try, not with the harrowed look in Jack’s eyes that never strayed to Kent, not even once everyone else had gone.

Tuesday followed in a similar fashion, as did Wednesday. No words. No one-timer.

“We’re playing the Eagles this week,” Kent tried Thursday, received a curt nod back.

If Jack had just been his friend – and he was, he reminded himself, he _was_ \- Kent would’ve kicked some sense into him. Channer wouldn’t have gotten away with sulking like that. He wouldn’t have sulked in the first place.

At least he didn’t bring it onto the ice.

”Right! Go fucking right, you _toton_!”

Kent grit his teeth, followed the command. One day, he was going to punch Tremmer in the face, and that day would be glorious, but for now, there were more important things.

The Eagle swore, dove to the side just before the puck could be snatched from him, but a two-man attack was too much. With a grunt loud enough for Kent to hear, Tremmer knocked their shoulders together and set off with the puck, Kent hot in his heels. There were all but no Océanics in the offensive zone, too long spent on the defence, but they’d have to make due.

Just off the blue line, Tremmer passed, a slanting shot that allowed for Kent to keep going, still crossing the blue line just after the puck. A couple of Eagles had made it back, one headed straight the puck, and Kent didn’t think, just stepped forward and snatched it up, only then realising how close he’d gotten to the boards.

The Eagle knew.

On the other side of the ice, Tremmer was circling the goal, as near as he could.

Gritting his teeth, Kent raised his stick, but there was no time to bring it down before a body hit his, slammed them both into the boards and the air from Kent’s lungs. His skates were swept away from under him, but a last hit with the stick – luck, pure luck - sent the puck off just before he hit the ice with a sound that resonated within his head.

The crowd groaned.

A whistle blew.

In the sudden still, Kent pushed himself up, winced at a small bolt of pain in his knee. It didn’t feel too bad. Nothing serious.

Tremmer skated over, put a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Kent nodded, didn’t quite trust his voice yet.

A glance to the left revealed Jack climbing onto the ice. Their eyes met, Jack’s wide and blue, then gone.

Good strategy for the power-play.

At the red circle, Kent bent down in position, locked eyes with an Eagle on the other side. There was a small drop of sweat rolling down his forehead. Kent smirked at him.

The puck dropped and was swiftly shot to the side. The Eagle dove after it, but too slow. Jack got to the puck first, took it a few feet nearer the goal before passing it to the side where Tremmer stood at the ready.

And Kent ran. The two of them could handle themselves, pass amongst one another until Jack was sidestepped by a Eagle, and it was just Tremmer. Tremmer and three Eagles that were getting way too close.

They locked eyes.

Tremmer took the shot, a desperate attempt from a desperate man.

And Kent did the only thing he knew how to.

The horn blew.

Within seconds, three large bodies slammed into him, grabbing at his helmet or bumping his back, all yelling into his ears. He could still hear the crowd behind them.

”Fucking beaut’! What a fucking beaut’, Parse!” was one, another in French. The only word he got was ’slap-shot’. At least that part was right.

5-2 did look better than 5-1. They were getting slaughtered, but they were doing it in style. Kent looked to the bench, to Dejardin who gave him a small nod. They still had their pride.

That was, until 5-2 became 6-2. And, less than a minute before the final horn, 7-2.

It was real fucking difficult to smile at 7-2.

They walked off the ice in silence, stinging tears in Kent’s eyes that he refused to let fall. There was no crying after a loss, no matter how bad it was. Crying was for pussies, and pussies didn’t belong on the ice.

Kent wasn’t a fucking pussy.

The dressing room was quiet, no chatter, no Dejardin yelling. No Dejardin at all. In the showers, a couple of guys looked like they were trying to drown themselves.

Eyes on the bench, Kent pulled off his jersey. Didn’t put it down. After another moment, he threw it back on and began retying his skates.

”The fuck’re you doing?” Channer asked.

”’m going back to the rink.” The crowd would be gone by now. Probably.

A stunned silence followed. Kent moved to tie his other skate.

”You’re fucking crazy, man.”

”Not crazy. I just don’t want us getting slaughtered like that again.”

”And you’re going to make that difference?”

”I’m going to fucking try!”

No tears. Tears were energy, and Kent needed all of his.

The rink wasn’t empty. Not a surprise, not by a long fucking shot, but Kent found it difficult to care. The crowd had cleared out, but one lone figure remained on the ice, shooting puck after puck into an empty goal, far from his usual regularity. Some didn’t even go in.

Kent skated onto the ice, headed first for the other goal but turned on his heel. Got so close Jack’s stick nearly hit him in the head.

”Crisse de câlice, Kent!”

”Thought you’d noticed me.”

”I didn’t.”

”Sorry ’bout that.” Kent nodded at the pucks at their feet. ”Mind if I join ya?”

Jack looked down, almost surprised at the presence. He looked up at Kent again, and for a second, he could hear the ‘no’. ”Euh. Sure?”

”Nice. Face-off?”

Jack nodded.

”Awesome.”

They got into position, bent over, sticks inches apart, puck between them. Kent looked up to find Jack looking back at him. They held eye contact as Jack counted down.

And then they were off.

Jack won the face-off, with little fight. He was stronger, reacted faster, but Kent was faster overall, and it took him only seconds to steal it back and skate off towards the goal, feeling rather than hearing Jack behind him. He was just about to take the shot when a larger body pressed up against his, nudged him just out of balance. The stumble was small, but enough.

No actual fight. Kent could taste the relief, swallowed it down and got back on two feet, but Jack had already raised his stick. Without thinking, Kent stuck out his own, shot the puck just out of reach.

”Hey!”

”All’s fair!” Kent yelled back and set off. Jack was just behind him, but he got to it first, snatched it onto his stick and slapped it back towards the goal. Turning to follow, he immediately collided with Jack. They both yelled out, instinctively grabbed at each other too keep from falling.

Steadied at last, but the grips didn’t falter. Kent tried to shake Jack off, but he held tight.

So that’s what it was.

Angling his head, Kent pushed off Jack’s helmet, received a small squawk that in any other situation would be fucking hilarious, but still Jack didn’t let go. Instead, he moved his face towards Kent’s, whose breath hitched.

With a slight move of his head, Kent’s helmet hit the ice, too.

”Motherfucker,” Kent whispered.

Jack grinned, and the urge to kiss him returned with a vengeance. Just a slight lean forward and a tilt of his head. It would be a shock, probably, give Kent the element of surprise enough to push him down on the ice and run.

Or Jack would kiss back.

Kent took a step backwards.

Jack’s eyes widened, but before he could react, Kent’s hands were on his chest, pushing him back with all the strength he could gather. Jack took a stumbling couple of steps back, looked back at Kent with an affronted look and gave him a shove in return.

It was impossible to tell who was the first to lose his balance, but whoever did grabbed the other by the jersey and brought him down with him. They landed in a heap of limbs and sticks, Jack’s elbow hit Kent’s chin, but it didn’t matter, not with the laughter filling up the rink like summer rain, there even as the sounds themselves ebbed out.

Neither moved. The ice was cold beneath them, seeped through jerseys and underarmour, but only when it hit their skin and the ache of used muscles settled in their bodies like weights did they get up.

They skated off the ice together, a little stiff, a lot exhausted, and only then did Kent dare a glance at Jack. Not quite smiling, never quite smiling, but close.

Worth it.

-/ \\-

”Kent!” Alicia Zimmermann exclaimed before throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling him close. Kent laughed and hugged her back, breathed in the faint smell of undoubtedly expensive perfume and wine.

”Alicia, let the poor boy get inside before you accost him!” Bad Bob yelled from the kitchen.

Another laugh, clear as bells, a quick kiss to his cheek, and Alicia went to hug her son instead.

”Maman,” Jack complained softly.

”Shh, let me have this.”

Fighting the smile on his lip, Kent untied his boots, placed his stuff in the wardrobe before sticking his head into the kitchen. “’sup, mr. Z.”

Bad Bob looked up from the stove and smiled. ”And what’s up to you, too, Kent.” He was wearing a new apron, this one with a large Menorah on the chest and the words ’let’s get lit!’ written above it.

Six months of semi-regular visits had done a lot to Kent’s lingering idol-worship. The apron did away with the last.

”Papa, don’t bother Kenny,” Jack said, sneaking up on Kent in a way a nearly 200-pound hockey player really shouldn’t be able to.

”Fucking shit, Zimms,” Kent whispered, an elbow to his ribs.

”Sorry.”

”I’m not bothering anyone, Jacques,” Bad Bob said.

”Not my name and you know it,” Jack replied before pulling slightly at Kent’s sleeve and nodding towards the stairs.

”Later!” Kent smiled, and Bad Bob grinned. Shook his head.

As soon as the door closed on them in Jack’s room, Kent threw himself on his bed with a groan. “It’s official, I’m gonna marry your bed. You can be my best man.”

“I don’t think that’s legal.”

“It will be.”

Jack chuckled, a low sound that went straight to Kent’s gut as he flopped down next to him, almost hitting him in the face with his arm.

Too fucking close, and Kent fought down the urge to stiffen, to move. Pull away from the burning spots where Jack was touching him.

”You’re staying the night, right?” Jack asked, turning his head to look Kent directly in the eye. His voice was low and quiet, and Kent was going to have to excuse himself real soon if he didn’t stop drooping his eyes in that disgustingly attractive way.

”’course.” No falsetto. One victory down.

”Nice.” Jack closed his eyes, let out a deep breath, and Kent was going to go fucking insane if he didn’t move that very fucking second.

Perhaps staying the night wasn’t that good of an idea.

They had roomed together on roadies before. This was no different.

Jack let out a small whimper when he rose from the bed, nearly enough to make Kent fall back down, but he kept up, walked towards the bookshelf. Trailing a finger down a book’s spine, he waited for his heart to calm down.

”Zimms?”

”Hm?”

”Are your books alphabetised?”

A beat of silence.

” … maybe.”

”Really?”

Jack shrugged. ”I like to be able to find what I’m looking for.”

Kent snorted.

”Fuck you.”

”Fuck you, too.”

The books really were Jack, through and through; World War 2 this, World War 2 that. Band of Brothers on DVD. Something sweet churned at the bottom of Kent’s stomach, almost impossible to keep off his face. He’d fallen for a fucking nerd, he had. A fucking nerd who was watching him from the bed with his hands resting on his stomach, eyes half-lidded and relaxed.

Kent’s fingers caught on something small, and before he could properly react, it fell and hit the floor with a small thump. ”Shit, sorry.”

Before he could as much as glance down, Jack was off the bed, bending down in front of him in a way that had to be illegal somewhere. Just before it was stuffed down in the waste basket, Kent caught a glimpse of something round and orange.

“It’s fine. I’ll just be downstairs.”

Before he could say anything, Jack was gone, leaving Kent with a frown and a door that didn’t quite slam.

Odd was the only word for it. Then again, Jack so often was. Probably just had to go to the bathroom or something.

With a shrug, Kent walked to the office chair by the window, plopped down with a sigh. The smell of Bad Bob’s cooking had begun seeping past Jack’s door. It had been the same the year before, when Kent first visited. Couldn’t find a single room that didn’t smell delightful by the end of the night.

With a small smile playing at his lips, Kent opened his eyes again, smiled a little at the poster on Jack’s wardrobe. ’Be better’. Had Jack written all fucking over it. Kent’s eyes travelled around the room, to the bookcase once more, the neatly made but now slightly mussed up bed, the hockey gear in the corner. The regularly emptied waste basket.

He shouldn’t look. He really, really shouldn’t.

On top was an empty packet of razors, obscuring everything underneath save for a slight glint of orange.

_Snooping’s fucking creepy_ , a voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like his Ma said.

Gently, Kent prodded at the packet of razors, enough for it to fall to the side.

A pill bottle. Empty.

Kent frowned, propriety forgotten, and picked it up, turned it in his hand. The name on the label was long, in something that was either Latin, French, or both, the prescription made out to Jack Laurent Zimmermann. Kent’s frown deepened. It didn’t look like drugs. Or steroids. Perhaps Jack was anaemic? Or had an iron deficiency?

He snorted. Jack Zimmermann, _iron deficiency_.

Before he could ready anymore, someone made their way through the hallway outside, and Kent swiftly tucked the bottle back, the packet of razors on top of it. Grabbing a book from the table, he threw himself down on the bed, just in time for Bad Bob to knock, then poke his head inside.

“Jack’s not here?”

Kent shook his head. ”He went downstairs.”

Bob frowned, quickly smoothed it out. ”Thank you, I’ll see if I can find him.”

”Good luck.”

”Thank you,” Bob repeated, pulled back out for a second before sticking his head back in, this time with look on his face that could only be described as wickedly gleeful. ”And Kent? It’s nice you’re trying to better your French, but I don’t think that’s the way to do it.” Nodding at the book in Kent’s hands, he left again.

Kent looked down, bit down a swear. The book in his hands was clearly in French, and also very clearly upside down.

So much for discretion.

A couple minutes later, Jack walked back in – normal, no paleness, no flush – and Kent was holding the book right.

”Did you Dad find you?”

”Yeah,” Jack flopped down on the bed, as relaxed as he’d been earlier. “He wanted my help with some of the food.”

Something nagged in the back of Kent’s head, but he ignored it. ”Nice. I’ll make sure not to eat anything, then.”

A pillow hit him square in the face.

”The fuck was that, Zimms?”

The smile was back on Jack’s face, almost lazy, but with excitement hidden just behind it. He shrugged.

”I said,” Kent continued, placed the book on Jack’s bedside table and picked up a pillow of his own. ”What. The fuck. Was that?”

A howl of laughter pierced the air as he brought the pillow down on Jack, quickly joined in by Kent as the counter-attack begun. His back hit the bed, hard, not hard enough, and he got up with a push to Jack who didn’t go down. The only warning Kent got before another pillow hit him was a grin, mirrored on his face as he hit back. How long they stayed like that, he had no idea, not until his vision filled with white and fluff, and there were feathers on the bed, and the floor, and in Jack’s hair. For a second, there was silence, then the laughter begun again, and they fell back down on the bed, once more making feathers fly through the air.

That was how Alicia found them, red-faced and heaving. Her face distorted into something that was probably supposed to be disapproval, but it faded as she shook her head, thinned her lips not to smile. ”Dinner’s on the table, in case anyone’s interested. And good luck tonight. You’ve made your bed, now you gotta sleep in it.”

”Maman, you’re worse than Papa!” Jack cried, which only made Kent laugh harder.

With one last disapproving look, Alicia headed back downstairs to her husband.

Wiping a couple of tears from his eyes, Kent considered asking Jack about the pills. Except there was no way to do that without potentially ruining the mood, and so he didn’t, not when they rose, nor when they raced down the stairs together. He didn’t ask Alicia after dinner as they sat on the couch, sipped red wine and pretended not to cry over Britney Spears, nor when he and Jack went to bed, too much embarrassment and too many nerves in the way, nor in the morning over breakfast, or when they hugged goodbye at the door, Jack wishing him a brief Merry Christmas on the way.

He never did end up asking about those wretched pills, and by the time it became too late, he was ready to punch his past self in the fucking face.

-/ \\-

There was no reason to be surprised when his Ma held out the baby – Miles, his brother – but he still was. As if he’d look different from the pictures; less scrunched up, less hair, maybe a birthmark he hadn’t noticed. Not that he’d looked closely enough to see a birthmark.

Still, he was surprised. Somehow.

“Whaddaya think?” his Ma – their Ma? - asked, as if showing off a painting she’d made. Or an outfit she was planning on wearing.

Peering over the blanket, Kent pulled his lower lip into his mouth. “He’s cute.” Not even a lie, the kid _was_ cute. His brother. Miles. He was just … 

Sarah’s eyes softened, left hand stroking the baby’s hair ever so gently, as if she didn’t even notice she was doing it. “He is, isn’t he? Looks exactly like you did at that age.”

“I was blond, though.”

She laughed. “No, you were bald as a fu-, as an egg.”

Kent stiffened. “Right.”

Adjusting the child in her arms, she only just kept herself from glancing at her husband. “Do ya wanna hold him?”

A soft snort floated between them. Or a cough. Or a sneeze. Difficult to tell with eleven week-olds.

“I’m good. Not when I’m standing,” he amended at the sudden disappointment in her eyes. “And I need to wash my hands first.”

“He’s barely inside the house, Sarah,” Ben added, a glance at Kent he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Oh. Right. Yes, wash your hands. Wanna hold him afterwards?”

In her arms, the baby let out another soft sound, and Kent shook his head. “I’m really tired, sorry. And I’ve got homework. Maybe tomorrow?”

“You can watch him while you work, if you want,” she tried. “He’ll need a nap soon, and you babysat so much when you were younger - “

“I’ll need to concentrate. Sorry.”

“Right,” Sarah said, or maybe she didn’t. Kent was already through the hallway, eyes on the door to the room they’d deemed his. It closed behind him with a soft click.

The walls were white. In New York, they’d been a pale yellow.

With a sigh, Kent sat down on the bed – that, at least, was still his old one – and gave the boxes neatly stacked in the corner a long look before moving to his stomach and pulling out his Maths book.

His words had hurt her, he could see that, but when he moved into the kitchen later that night, she didn’t let it show, and he was grateful. With a kiss to her cheek, he grabbed the pot from her hands and placed it on the stove. She squeezed his arm, threw a potato peel at him, and for a second, everything was okay again. He could almost pretend they were at home, just the two of them, no Ben, no _Miles_. No Dad.

As with everything good, it shattered.

”Any cute girls in your classes?”

Kent closed his eyes. ”I don’t know. I guess.”

”So nothing exciting to tell me?”

”Not really. I’m really busy with – ”

”With hockey.” She sighed. ”Yeah, I think I’m beginning to get that, sweetie.”

A flash of anger, swiftly suppressed, but not quite leaving. Never seemed to these days. “I’m not gonna throw my future away for some cheap pussy.”

“A girlfriend doesn’t mean throwing your future away. Unless you knock ‘er up.”

_You’d know_. “That’s what I meant. And I don’t have the time for a girlfriend. I mean, I could give up doing homework, that’d probably help, but if something goes wrong I’d like a diploma to fall back on.”

“You know that’s not - “ she bit down the next word. Kent didn’t turn around, didn’t dare look. ”You know you can tell me, right? If you get a girlfriend. I won’t freak out or anything.”

“I’ll tell ya when I get one,” Kent promised.

“Good. Now, tell me about that – what was it you called it, a one-timer?”

Kent exhaled. “One-timer, yeah. It’s when you score directly off someone’s pass - “

At some point, Ben walked in, placed a kiss to his wife’s temple and set the table. By the time the food made it there, too, only slightly burned, the conversation had turned to include him, and Kent found himself going quiet, the exhaustion of the flight kicking in. That was the excuse he used, at least, to retire to his room once the baby started crying.

The door blocked out the sound. Small mercies.

Once on the bed, he pulled out his phone, hesitating only for a second before tapping Jack’s name.

”Kenny?”

Kent bit his lip, ignored the happy flip in his stomach at the sound of Jack’s voice, the anger that followed. ”Heya, Zimms. How’s everything in Montréal?”

“Euh, fine. I’m having dinner with Maman.” He didn’t sound convinced, possibly just confused, and Kent could’ve fucking kissed him. Not that there was a time he wouldn’t. Not anymore.

”Shit, I’m not interrupting you guys, am I?”

”No, Maman just saw someone she knew. She’s talking to him now. I’m hiding in the bathroom,” Jack admitted, embarrassment light in his voice, and Kent realised he was smiling.

”So you don’t have to talk to him?”

”Ouais.” And Jack was smiling, too. ”But I’m not interrupting you, am I? I mean, you’re with your Ma, right? Have you, euh, have you met your brother yet?”

”You’re not interrupting, you idiot. I’m the one who called, remember?”

”Right.”

”So what kinda restaurant’re ya at?”

”Um … one that serves seafood? Good seafood, not the kind that makes you sick. Maman’s having some, I’m eating fish. It’s like, dark brown. Really good. The same colour as Marron’s hair. You know, like, shitty brown. Marron’s hair probably tastes like this, too … ”

Kent hid the laughter in his palm. ”Zimms, have you been drinking?”

”Euh, a little. Maman doesn’t mind.”

Closing his eyes, Kent could see his face; a little flushed, the same wide-eyed look as a child being caught with a hand in a cookie jar. And that was Jack, wasn’t it? The perpetual hand in a cookie jar everyone but he knew he was allowed to open whenever he wanted. ”My Ma would kill me if she found out I drank.”

”Surely not.”

”Nah, maybe not literally. But she’d be hella mad. She’s so scared I’ll accidentally knock some chick up, and apparently drinking’s part of that. In her head.”

“It doesn’t help.”

”Guess not. But I’m not knocking anyone up.”

”Of course not. It would be terrible for your career.”

Kent’s jaw dropped. ”Jesus fucking Christ, Zimms, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“So many things.”

A swell of laughter crept up Kent’s throat, swirled together with Jack’s, made way for a silence he knew so well from bus trips and shared hotel rooms all over Québec. Swimming pools in the summer. Kent had never much liked silences, but with Jack … it felt natural. So much did.

There was a knock on the door, and only then did Kent realise his mouth was open, tongue forming words he didn’t recognise. He swallowed them down, just in time for his Ma to stick her head in, widen her eyes.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise - “

“I have to go now, Zimms, sorry. Say his to your Maman from me, yeah?”

“Sure.” It wasn’t disappointment in his voice. Kent knew that. ”See you soon.”

”Yeah. See ya. Have a good break, Zimms.”

”You, too, Kenny. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Kent told the dial tone. 

“Sorry,” his Ma said again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No problem, we were done anyway. I was gonna lay down for a bit.”

She frowned. ”You’re not getting ill, are ya?”

”No. Nothing’s wrong with me, just … I’m tired. ’s been a long day.”

Fondness, concern, compassion, the ghost of the woman she’d once been flickered in and out of existence. “I’ll get outta your hair, then. Just – one last question?”

“Sure.”

“Who’s Zimms?”

_No one_. _Not for you_. “Jack Zimmermann. He’s one of my teammates.”

She perked up. “A friend?”

“Yeah.” Kent smiled, felt the skin stretch across his teeth. “A friend.”

*

The ping pong fall flew through the air, landed square in the last cup standing on the other side of the table to the cheering of the guys present. Girls, too, one of which handed the cup to the other guy now staring at Kent with a mixture of awe and wrath. Mostly intoxication. Another girl’s hand was wrapped around his bicep, the right one, slightly in the way, but he was neither sober nor drunk enough to shrug her off. Not with the eyes on them.

“Any good?” he asked, laughed at the middle finger.

“You’re good at that,” the girl said.

“Practice,” Kent replied, spared a glance around the room. Time ticked closer and closer to midnight, squeezed his insides like a fist.

Jack hadn’t moved. Same couch, same girl running her fingers across his bared forearms. New beer.

“Your girlfriend?”

The girl on his arm. Right. She was there. “Not mine, no. Someone else’s, perhaps”

“His?”

Kent gripped the cup in his hand even tighter. “Don’t think so.”

She hummed. The sound reverberated through his skin, made it to the knot in his stomach. Didn’t even fucking touch it.

The clock hand moved again, close to its buddy but not quite touching, and Kent grabbed a new cup. Watched.

“Ten!”

“Ten,” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper. Nine, eight, seven, and Jack was still there, the girl was still there. Six, five four, and even Marron had found a fucking girl. Good for him. Three and two, and the girl’s hand tightened on his arm.

“One!”

A hand in his hair, soft, sticky lips on his, soft flesh beneath his hands. Around them, cheering took off, heightened in intensity until Kent feared his ears would burst with it. That he’d be turned inside out.

The girl pulled away, a flush on her cheekbones – a blush, alcohol – and Kent wiped his mouth. For a second, disappointment was clear in her eyes, probably longer, but Kent turned away. 

On the other side of the room, Jack pulled away from his girl, a droopy smile on his face and his hand on her left tit. The fucking _cow_.

Picking up a new cup of beer, Kent let it flow across the tangy taste of oranges, drown it out, but the bitterness of his own disappointment just beneath it didn’t even fucking budge.

As if he had the right to expect anything else.

Anger churning in his stomach, mixing with alcohol, Kent walked to the kitchen, grabbed a new beer. Walked. Didn’t stop until he was back home, covers drawn up over his lap and the beer half-empty in his hand.

_Pathetic_.

He really fucking was. A pathetic fucking _faggot_ wishing for what would never be his.

-/ \\-

It had been a while since Kent had played a game this physical. No side was counting the penalties anymore, the amount of guys kept on the bench with cold wraps, the sharp glare of medics. Dejardin’s face had been red for almost an hour now, nearly purple. Kent could almost see steam coming out of his ears as he sped past, a bitter taste in his mouth only slightly mixed with iron. With a little luck, it was just his cheek, not another tooth, but time would tell.

A swear tore through the air – not his, Cookie’s, no, a Wildcat’s – as a blue and white body slammed him into the glass on the other side of the rink. Another whistle tore through the air, the refs would be running out of breath soon, another penalty.

_Bad Jack Zimmermann – the dynasty continues!_

As if it was that fucking simple.

If he tried, he could probably read the amount of one-timer attempts in the lines of Jack’s forehead. Or in the penalties.

“Fucking watch yourself!” a Wildcat yelled. As if Kent had checked him, not brushed up against him. “You trynna suck my cock or somethin’?”

Kent pulled his face into a smirk. ”Not my type, sorry. Maybe try that goalie of yours, though?”

The Wildcat’s face turned an almost sickening shade of red, but Kent was out of range before he got the chance to even blink.

”The fuck’d you say so him?” Channer asked at centre ice. ”Looks like his head’s about to fucking explode.”

”Just gave him a Maths problem.”

There was no time for laughter, no energy, no _breath_ as the puck dropped, and everything else disappeared.

It was impossible to tell who won the face-off, hardly mattered in a game like this. Kent was already off, fast as his legs could carry him, more than his usual half eye on the white and red players. Punches fell easily, and Kent was not about to fall with them. Not if he could avoid it.

There were no strategies, no attempts at anything other than survival. The first penalty came a thirty seconds in, the second two minutes after. Mixed with the puck changing owner ever five seconds, never more than ten, changing teams twice a minute, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait, and run, and stay out of trouble. Pray trouble didn’t catch up.

Finally, a Wildcat forward received, sent the puck flying straight back to centre ice moments before Channer’s hip made contact with his and he crashed into the boards. As if a miracle, Jack was already there, checking aside a Wildcat and grabbing the puck mid-flight. Across the ice, across the sea of blood and carnage, their eyes met.

Pale blue and electric. Pale blue and on fire.

And Kent did as he was told, turned on his heel, moved with every ounce of speed he hadn’t realised he had left. Behind him, the puck went back and forth, Jack to Macs, Macs to Jack. Every pass was heard in the crowd, the rise and fall of roars and spit, the sounds of bodies hitting glass and sticks hitting helmets.

And still Kent ran, felt the presence of the game, the bodies swarming behind him, near until the puck was suddenly there, inches from the blue line. Following it over, Kent kicked his heel in, stuck out his stick and brought it around in a turn just out of the way of an approaching Wildcat.

The other Océanics would be there within seconds, but no one had seconds in offence. Not in this game. The Wildcat had been fast, still was, and Kent had no time to think of any other plan.

It was a far cry from his best shot, a far cry from his worst, and perhaps it was even enough.

Kent didn’t see, didn’t hear as two hundred and fifty pounds of enraged teenager slammed against him, pushed them both against the glass that bent behind their combined weight. Mostly, though, Kent felt something bend inside of him, the pain following a split second later, blinding, _suffocating_ , muting even the fall to the ice. More iron, more blood on the ice dripping from his lip, dark and red and thick and for a second where all was still, all he could see.

There was a cry, somewhere, heard through cotton, but Kent couldn’t find the strength to look up.

Later, when he finally watched the tape alone in his room, he would see a small figure with the number 1 sneering from his back abandon his stick on the ice a few feet from the heap that was him, skate over, push a Wildcat out of the way before dropping his gloves. The hit fell straight to the square of the fucker’s jaw, knocked off his helmet, and he kept hitting until both refs and a couple of players finally pulled him off. Another was with Kent, helping him to his feet, but he remembered none of it.

The penalty, however, he did remember. Someone, Kent would never learn who, all but hauled him onto the bench, where he was examined in every way possible save for a finger up his fucking ass for the duration of Jack’s time in the box. At one point, when he was one poke short of punching the medic in the stomach to see how he liked it, a Wildcat across the ice caught his eye and broke into a wide, toothless grin.

Another fucking trap, and he could’ve punched himself.

Jack fought his battles, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that, it was no fucking secret. And who wouldn’t want to punch Bad Bob fucking Zimmermann’s prodigy runt who was supposed to be so much fucking better than any of them? Even Kent would’ve jumped at the chance, had he been big enough to pull it off. And not a pathetic fucking fag ready to throw himself at his feet.

The smile disappeared as a horn blared, returned in full force as the Wildcat skated off to celebrate with his teammates.

First goal of the game and Kent wasn’t even on the fucking ice. Three seconds later, second period came to an end.

’You ok?’ he mouthed to Jack in the dressing room.

A nod, stiff but undeniable and far from enough to make either of them relax.

Despite the medic clearing, Kent started the period on the bench, watched Marron win a face-off (the miracle!), groaned as the puck was swiftly nicked by a Wildcat. Instinctively, Kent’s hands clenched, relaxed again as a blue and white D-man with biceps like tree trunks and a mean streak a mile wide put himself in the way.

The wildcat got no further, and neither did the puck. A whistle blew, the game brought to a halt. Five seconds left of Jack’s penalty.

“Parson,” Dejardin said, and Kent was on the ice, a swift high-five to Channer in passing, as the puck hit the ice once more. The timer hit zero, just in time, and Kent gave Jack a light push forward as he, too, returned to the ice.

”Let’s fuck ’em up.”

A quick nod, and they were off.

Macs caught the puck between a pass, wasted no time in sending it Jack’s way, and Kent could saw his attention shift, from puck to goal, as was he inside his head with him.

He didn’t look at Kent. Didn’t need to.

Together, the three of them crossed the last of the ice to the offensive side, puck safe by Jack’s stick, occasionally sent to either Macs or Kent when needed but always returning. Like a dog to its master, devout and well-trained.

Halfway through, Jack’s wrist flicked, and Kent bit down a sound of glee. That was _his_ move, his move in Jack’s hands, sending the puck his way. Without looking to see if he caught it – and of course he caught it – Jack sped off, ran towards the goal as if his life depended on it. Somewhere, it might have.

Fighting through the burn in his lungs and thighs, Kent followed, kept the puck firmly with him until he locked eyes with the goalie. For a long second, he let them stay there, waited until he could see the colour of the other guy’s irises, then took the shot.

They had a good goalie, the Wildcats. Without missing a beat, he dove to the side, followed Kent’s movements exactly, saved a puck that wasn’t there. His body hit the ice, and the puck hit the net only inches above his shoulder, sent in from the tip of Jack’s stick where it had hit off Kent’s pass.

A pair of eyes, blue and impossibly wide, sought Kent’s and found them.

They met in the middle, arms locking around each other as if trying to push themselves together into a single being. Jack’s breath was at his ear, teased at his hair, and Kent realised he was grinning. Around them, the air was pierced by noise, hoots and yells in languages Kent didn’t understand, bodies slammed into them from all sides, but he hardly noticed.

”We fucking did it,” Jack whispered. His breath was warm, even in the rink, and Kent shuddered.

”We fucking did it,” he repeated back, equally breathless, warm to his very core.

Only when the other guys pulled back did they shift out of the other’s embrace and follow. Almost reluctant. Almost.

And the puck hit the ice.

*

The bus was quiet, from the devastating loss, the injuries, the pure exhaustion. Even Channer had shut his mouth for once, and Kent was grateful for it. His muscles felt like over-boiled oysters, his tongue still ached from where he’d bitten into it as he fell, and his ears rang from the yelling of the nurse who’d taken one look at his ribs after the game and promptly thrown a fit. He thought she’d overreacted a little. Nothing had been broken.

Next to him, inches away when the bus had taken off, now firmly leaned against him with his head on his shoulder was Jack, softly snoring away. Looking actually relaxed for once.

A small smile crept onto Kent’s face, and he let it stay.

It was with only a sliver of hesitation that he poked Jack awake, stuck out his tongue when he made a noise of complaint, and trailed behind him into the hotel. Continued quiet, he would answer if anyone asked. That ass, he would keep to himself.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Jack went to brush his teeth in the bathroom, leaving Kent to change his clothes in the middle of their room, wishing for and dreading that Jack had forgotten something he needed. As if he ever would.

When he returned from the bathroom himself, he found Jack already asleep, enveloped in soft darkness, the faintest light of the stars, and a thick duvet. His breaths were deep and even, and Kent let the silence seep into him.

There was no need for words. Not tonight.

-/ \\-

When Kent had first started going to the parties the Océanics and the ridiculously large amount of people they knew threw, the music had thrown him off completely. How anyone could enjoy something loud enough to ruin their hearing was beyond him.

Turned out it was a matter of routine. And drinking enough alcohol.

Kent left the kitchen of the small but well-kept house with a beer in his hand, winked to a girl with neat cornrows and a nice smile before casting a glance into the living room. As always, an impromptu dance floor had erupted, a regret for the host in the morning when his parents returned. No Jack, though.

He didn’t _have_ to find Jack at every party. It was just something he did. And he did it well.

It took a couple of minutes and three fist bumps, almost a record, before Kent’s eyes fell on him, sitting on a love seat with a tiny slip of a girl in his lap. From the look of it, the almost-empty bottle dangling dangerously in the hand not keeping the girl in his lap from falling, he was drunk off his ass. Kent frowned. It usually took him longer. He’d have to get there sooner next time.

”Zimms!” Swallowed by the music, and so he tried again. ”Fancy seeing you here!”

”Fancy, euh, seeing you, too,” Jack slurred. The girl in his lap looked up at his face, at the smile that could melt even the iciest of hearts, then over at Kent’s. Jack’s eyes glipped. ”Right. Kenny, this is Olive. Olive, that’s Kenny. He’s my best friend.”

”Nice to meetcha,” Kent nodded, firmly kept his arms from shoving her down from the spot she had claimed as her throne. The little _bitch_.

”You as well,” the girl – Olive – said. Squinted.

”When’d you, when’d you get here?” Jack asked.

”A few minutes ago.”

Jack nodded to himself. ”A few minutes ago.”

”So, you are teammates?” Olive asked.

”’s right,” Kent answered. ”Rimouski Océanic forwards both of us.”

”What is a forward?” Olive asked, right hand fiddling with one of the buttons on Jack’s shirt. If she managed to open it, Kent knew, they’d both get a nice look at the sparse chest hair there, right between his pecs. But Olive didn’t know that, nor would she ever if Kent had anything to say.

“I thought you were Canadian.”

Olive scowled. “I am. I just don’t watch hockey.”

_Then what the fuck are ya doing here, sweetheart_.

“A forward,” Jack started before switching to French, rapid and way too slurred for Kent to even try and understand. From the look on Olive’s face, about as much went through to her. But Jack’s face had lit up, and his eyes seemed to almost sparkle, and so Kent didn’t interrupt. Took another swig of beer instead.

”Hey!”

Jack’s words trailed off as he looked around for the source of the voice, frowned at Marron holding what appeared to be an empty bottle in one hand, the other acting as a makeshift megaphone.

”What?” someone yelled back.

He held up the bottle. ”Anyone want to play?”

“Are we not too old for - “

”Ouais!” Jack interrupted, stood up, nearly sent Olive scrambling to the floor. With only a slight stumble, he made it to the half circle already forming, almost falling on his face as he tried to sit down like a normal person.

”I’mma join, too. Wanna come?” Kent asked Olive who shrugged but followed him to where Jack was swaying, sat down on his other side. Her bare thigh was touching Kent’s, and he’d never been less aroused in his entire life. Counting the time Marron had decided to grab something from the top of his stall next to Kent’s with his dick out.

”I still think we are too old for this,” she said as Marron placed the bottle on the ground.

”Just relax,” one of the other guys said, flashed a smile that would’ve made Kent run for the door.

As if planned, the bottle came to a halt in front of her, pointing right between her slightly parted thighs. Knowing Marron, it probably was planned, the fucking pervert. Still, _somehow_ , when he leaned in to place a wet, sloppy kiss on her mouth, she didn’t immediately push him away.

The next to spin was a girl Kent didn’t know, who was in the lap of one his D-men before he could even begin to remember his name. Deby.

Next was Jack, kissing a girl with dark, straight hair and almost non-existing eyebrows. Kent looked away.

At some point, some girl whose name he didn’t know and didn’t care about kissed him. He wasn’t cruel enough not to kiss her back, but when a tongue poked at his lower lip, he pulled back, ignored the clear sounds of disappointment around them.

Fuck them, he thought, licked the lingering taste of strawberries off his lips.

When Marron landed his bottle on one of the other guys, Kent looked away immediately but still heard the complaints and the whooping, the mock-retching. Why they even went through with it, he had no idea, not until two girls locked lips and he caught a look of pure hunger in Macs’ eyes.

His bottle was getting empty.

Another girl kissed him, then, this one tasting of watermelons. What it was with girls and artificial-tasting lip shit, he’d never understand. Didn’t particularly want to.

Grabbing the bottle, he gave it a lazy spin, brought his own bottle to his lips while it turned. When he looked back down, it had slowed to a near halt, brought time and noise with it as it quietly and securely landed in front of Jack.

Because of course it did.

Kent looked up, locked eyes with an equally shocked but far more intoxicated Jack. The rest of the circle let out varying volumes of cheers. Kent didn’t move.

”Just fucking kiss ’im, Parser,” Deby slurred, gestured wildly at Jack with his own bottle, spilling much of its content on the floor and the girl next to him who seemed too far gone herself to care.

Kent swallowed, throat suddenly dry despite the beer churning in his stomach. In front of him, Jack was frowning.

”Come on, Parser, the rest of us want a try, too.”

”I’m not … ” Kent trailed off. He didn’t know what he wasn’t. He didn’t even know what he was, except he did, and he’d tried so hard, kept it to himself for so long – it wasn’t fucking _fair_.

He could refuse. Should. Except that would be even more suspicious.

Jack, however, had no such scruples – of course he hadn’t, he was _straight_ \- and scooted forwards, didn’t even bother standing. Probably for the best, with the way he still nearly kicked a girl in a chiffon skirt. Kent had little time to react, to _protest_ , before Jack had positioned himself in front of him, knees on the floor and thighs spread in a way that was entirely unnecessary and the hottest thing Kent had ever seen. Grabbing Kent’s face in both hands, he looked him deeply in the eyes for a long second before pressing their lips together.

It was nothing and everything like his first kiss. Their first kiss. Jack’s lips were firm and confident against his, easing and adding pressure and movement in a way that made Kent feel him in his entire body, right out to the tips of his fingers that itched to slide through his hair, down to his toes. The sheer heat of him, burning marks into his skin and the last hints of protests on his tongue away. There were still people, he remembered, but they were distant memories, desert hallucinations, and nothing Kent could bother thinking about, not with the toe-curling softness of Jack’s lips against his. And so he let go, kissed back, tried to match Jack’s movements with his own – failed miserably, but it didn’t matter, not according to himself and not according to the sounds Jack was making, soft against his mouth and only for him to hear. To _feel_.

When Jack’s tongue ran over his bottom lip, he knew he was lost. As if he wasn’t already. He couldn’t breathe, didn’t even fucking want to. All that mattered was Jack’s large, calloused hands on his cheeks, his knees knocking into Kent’s, their noses bumping together, his tongue - 

In Jack’s shirt, and how they’d gotten there, he didn’t care, his fingers tightened their hold. Heaven and Hell, and all he could do was hold on and cling to the only thing grounding him to life.

When they finally pulled back, Jack’s shirt was crumbled beyond salvation, and they were both breathing hard. A strong heat was spreading in Kent’s cheeks, an even stronger one in his lower belly that would manifest itself in the most embarrassing way if he didn’t move away. And he should, he really should, but Jack was still looking into his eyes, gaze intense and pupils so large Kent could barely make out any blue. He made the mistake of looking down at Jack’s mouth, breath catching at the sight of the swelling, the aggressive red tint. The most beautiful fucking thing he’d ever seen.

”That was so hot,” a girl whispered, shattered the moment like glass. Around her, around _them_ , the others broke out in laughter that sounded too hysterical to be entirely natural, and something not unlike panic began rising in Kent’s chest. With one of his hands still on Jack’s chest, he shoved him away, felt only a slight hint of remorse as he fell back on his too-large hockey butt with a grunt. The hurt confusion that stared back was almost enough for the remorse to kick back in, would be if Jack hadn’t fucking _kissed him_ in front of their fucking teammates. At a fucking party. Again.

”You’re so fucking drunk, Zimms,” he said, voice breaking no less than twice. He cleared his throat.

”Shit, is he that good a kisser?” Deby asked, eyes wide in what Kent prayed wasn’t admiration.

”Shut the fuck up,” he said, rose, walked out of the room without looking back. As soon as he was out of sight, no one knew what had happened. No one would have seen what he’d done. What _Jack_ had done.

And couldn’t take back, not with an exorbitant amount of alcohol that with any luck would be thrown up in the morning by each and every face whose eyes had witnessed whatever the fuck had just happened.

His instincts brought him up a staircase, as far away from the party as humanly possible, over yellow tape reading ’keep out!’ in large, black letters. The first floor held a corridor with four doors. Kent entered the second. Behind it, he found what appeared to be someone’s bedroom, although he couldn’t care less whose. It had an adjoining bathroom, and Kent shut the door hard behind him, sat down on the toilet lid, made quick work of his belt and zip despite the rapid shaking of his hands. It wouldn’t take much, he knew, and it didn’t.

He sank back, didn’t even bother tucking himself in, or wiping the mess off his hands or stomach. The orgasm had, mixed with the alcohol, wiped any hint of thought completely from his mind, and for that he was grateful.

He didn’t want to think another fucking thought ever again.

*

Returning to practice Monday was mechanic, instinct and routine over thought. In the dressing room, he was met with a fist bump, two, a slap on the back. A couple of guys in the corner looking more than a little like shit.

No questions. No comments, no chirps, no lifted eyebrows. No awkwardness from Jack.

Maybe he really had been that lucky, that the memories had been thrown up along with the alcohol.

”Fucking legend,” Channer said, a dreamy tint to his voice. ”The girls there … damn, you guys need to make a one-timer like that more often.”

Because that’s what the party had been about. Kent had forgotten. ”They weren’t that hot.”

A grin spread on Channer’s face, a grin Kent could copy down to the slightest twinge of muscle. ”Maybe not, but they certainly weren’t shy. Just ask Zimmermann.”

At the mention of his name, Jack looked up, shirtless and wide-eyed and terrified. ”What?”

”What was her name?” Channer continued, oblivious to the way the underarmour in Kent’s hands was nearing ripping. ”That blonde figure skater you came down with? Or was she a gymnast?”

”Euh - ”

”Hot, anyway,” Channer said, back to Kent, who forced his grip to slack. ”Didn’t know he had it in him.”

”Or in her,” Macs added from a couple of stalls down.

”I didn’t - ” Jack tried, but whatever words that followed drowned in the laughter.

”I didn’t,” he repeated to Kent as they walked onto the ice, low enough for no one else to hear. ”We just spoke. She likes history, too. That’s all that happened.”

Kent looked at him, tried to find a response that would work. As if anything could. ”You don’t need to tell me that.”

For a second, Jack looked confused, but the expression swiftly made way for a shrug. ”I wanted to.”

And then he was gone, halfway over the ice before Kent could even begin to try to understand what was going through his head. Or punch his fucking teeth out. Or smash his own head against the boards.

-/ \\-

There were few times in his life that Kent had been more grateful for hockey than when the rest seemed to be going to shit. Whatever was happening, however late his Ma stayed out, however his heart chose to beat around some guy or other, there was always a hockey rink he could go to, some place to turn his mind off and just … play. Until all the other shit went away, and he could barely breathe in the best way possible.

It had been a coach who had suggested the possibility of going pro, back when Kent was ten or so, barely five feet but with enough freckles to make up for it. Might as well do something you love, he’d said. Especially someone as good as Kent was.

And so Kent’s future had changed, from a wobbly mess of maybes to _hockey_.

(The fag-thing had come as a surprise, but by the time it did, turning back had become far too late.)

But however long he spent, how many hours he lost himself in the cold, the stinging embrace of checks and bruises, the problems were always there when he stepped off again. Nothing ever fully solved itself just by him looking away. But it helped.

“Parson, can you get in here for a moment?”

And one problem rarely came on its own, as his Ma had once said.

“What did you do?” Channer whispered.

“No fucking clue,” Kent whispered back, forced his muscles to relax. Coach didn’t know. “Wish me luck.”

In his office, Dejardin nodded at a chair. Sat down in his own. “And close the door behind you.”

Easier said than done. The office was maybe the size of Jack’s walk-in closet and filled to the brink with paperwork with a whiteboard and a desk squeezed in. Even manoeuvring into the chair made Kent wish he’d been a figure skater instead. Still, he placed his ankle on the opposite thigh, leaned back.

Fake it ’til you make it.

”Parson.”

”Coach.”

“Do not ‘coach’ me, this is serious.” With a glare, Dejardin pulled out a paper from one of the high unstable-looking piles littering the desk, slapped it down in front of Kent. ”Recognise this?”

Kent looked down. Unfortunately, he did.

“This is the results of a Math test I believe you took two weeks ago,” Dejardin said, Kent’s silence firmly ignored. ”What are your own thoughts?”

Kent shrugged. ”Not my best work.”

Another glare. ”Not _anyone’s_ best work. Except maybe un chimpanzé. Es-tu un chimpanzé, Parson?”

”No, coach.”

”Then how is this your grade?”

Kent shrugged again. ”Hockey?”

Wrong answer, and the only one he could give. Like _hell_ was he telling Dejardin about that party. Two days before the test.

The vein in Dejardin’s forehead had become apparent, not yet pulsing, but still too snake-like for Kent’s liking.

“Why are we even meeting about this, it was _one test_. My grades overall are fine.”

Dejardin folded his hands on the table. “That is true. They are, for now. What I want to avoid, is them slipping. I have seen it before, I have been in this for a long time. One bad grade becomes two, and then they are all gone, and I have to dismiss another talent from the team.”

“My grades were bad last year.”

“You were not in talk for the A last year,” Dejardin said, grimaced, as if the words that followed brought him physical pain. “And now, you are one of our best players, you and Zimmermann. With him slipping - “

“Wait, what?”

“ - trust me, if I had the choice, I would have you practice all day, every day, but there are rules and those, we have to follow. Now, I trust you are grown enough to figure it out on your own - ”

“Of course, but whaddaya mean, Zimms is - “

” - but I suggest you take a break from your extra practices for a little while.”

Kent stared dumbfounded at the man in front of him. Middle-aged and balding, a former hockey star himself, now sitting in a shit-dump of an office of a junior team.

”What the fuck.”

”It is not ideal, but - “

”Not ideal my ass! I need those practices! I won’t - _we_ won’t get better without them!”

“No, you won’t!” Dejardin interrupted, face all but magenta. “I need that one-timer of yours to be regular, I need perfection, but I cannot let you off the hook on this one.” A break, a breath, Kent’s hands balled to fists beneath the table. Dejardin’s voice dropped. “And better – better _with_ Zimmermann, or better _than_ Zimmermann?”

“The fuck're ya - “

”This is not a competition, Parson, not yet. You will not be drafted until next year, so get your priorities in order. Next year, you can try to kill each other on the ice, God knows you might need to, but this year you - ”

“Have you talked about this with Zimms, too?”

“Yes, of course I have. Just before you came. He did not take it well, but he understood my reasons. You will, too.”

A shiver ran up Kent’s spine, providence, worry, a tingling sense of _something_. ”I just have to keep my grades up.”

If there was relief in Dejardin’s eyes, Kent didn’t care. ”Correct.”

”And then the extra practices are back up.”

”For you, yes. And when it is the same for Zimmermann, he can practice, too.”

”What about in the morning? No one does homework in the morning.”

Dejardin sighed. ”As long as it does not take from your sleep. But you have to go home in the afternoon. Both of you.”

”Deal.”

”Good. Have a good day, Parson. Do your fucking homework.”

Kent said nothing back, just grabbed his bag and headed out the door, made sure to slam it just a little on his way out.

Jack had probably gone home, driven off in that horror of a truck of his, but -

Just in case, Kent checked the dressing room, found nothing, took an extra turn in the hallways, the lobby, stuck his head inside the equipment rooms not yet locked. Still nothing.

What made him check the backdoor, inconspicuously hidden beside one of the many trophy cases, he didn’t know. Never figured out.

Almost as soon as the door opened, he was hit by the sound of breathing – too shallow, too swift – and for a second, Kent was back in Saint John, in the side room to a lobby of a rink that looked like a different world in daylight. All rinks did.

“Shit, Zimms, what’re ya doing here?”

Jack didn’t answer, Kent didn’t expect him to, not with the breathing, the arms around his head between his knees on the ground. The filthy ground, but that didn’t matter.

The door shut behind Kent, too loud, as he knelt next to Jack, placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna have to breathe for me, buddy. In and out, come on.”

Jack’s eyes were screwed shut, but his hands were yet to grasp at his hair, and so the panic churning in Kent’s stomach didn’t move up, didn’t swallow him as well. “You’re gonna have to work with me here. Like when we were hazed. I know you can again.”

And Jack breathed, all but bit the air, swallowed it down into his lungs. Again. And again. At first, it didn’t seem to come any slower, but Kent kept talking, kept rubbing the tense muscles beneath Jack’s shirt – too light for March, how wasn’t he cold – and finally, it began to slow. Sound less like a man drowning and more like he was just … out of breath. Yes, out of breath.

“You’re doing so great, Zimms,” Kent whispered, babbled, slapped him in the face for all he knew. “In and out, just like that. Keep it going.”

And Jack did. Miraculously.

Kent didn’t want to think about what he’d had to do if he didn’t.

“Think you can stand?”

Jack shook his head.

“Okay.” Kent looked around, grimaced, sat himself down next to him. Ignored the dampness seeping through his jeans. “ … wanna talk about it?”

Jack shook his head again.

“Do you – fuck, Zimms, what’s going on withya? What the fuck is this? How often do you, y’know, get like this?”

Around himself now, as if keeping himself together, keeping everything in place, Jack’s arms tightened, nails digging into the shirt in a way that had to leave bruises behind. His lips thinned, lost all colour, and Kent found himself backtracking.

“I didn’t mean it like that, just … what can I do?”

Too soft, but then again, reality already had no place. Something told him they wouldn’t be talking about this once it returned.

“Just be here,” Jack whispered.

“I’ll always be here,” Kent replied, too swiftly, but Jack didn’t seem to notice.

Another silence stretched between them, the only sounds a car passing by and their own breathing, Kent’s normal – kept that way, _forced_ that way – and Jack’s still shallow, but slower. Regular. Clockwork. Like the drills they would otherwise be doing now.

Kent’s lips were dry, but he didn’t lick them. “Is this about your grades? Coach not letting us practice?”

At that, Jack finally glanced up. “Not you, too.”

“I just got a warning,” Kent reassured him. “But no extra practices for me, either. Afternoon, at least. I talked him into letting me come in in the morning.”

“He wouldn’t let me,” Jack said, voice rough. Almost as if he’d just been crying And perhaps he had, perhaps that was how he cried. Kent couldn’t remember seeing him cry.

“It’s a load of bullshit.”

Jack nodded, hugged himself just a little tighter. No nails this time.

“Makes me wish I had a rink in my backyard,” Kent continued, let out a laugh that sounded fake even to him. “Wouldn’t hold Coach above spying, though.”

Next to him, Jack stiffened. When he spoke, it was light, almost soft. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Your Dad’s rink?”

Jack shook his head.

Kent frowned. “Really? That’d be my first thought. If I had a rink in my backyard.”

“But you don’t.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I do.”

“So you’ve told me.”

Jack nodded, more to himself than Kent, until it was. His eyes were large, shining in the last light of day, impossibly blue. “Come with me.”

“To your house?”

“Yes. To the rink.” Jack swallowed. “Practice with me. Please.”

A whisper, a plea if Kent had ever heard one. “Right now?”

Jack nodded again, got up on shaking legs and with a hand on the wall behind him. “Right now. The sun will be down soon, we have to go _right now_.”

“Sure.” Kent rose as well. “But, no offence, I don’t think you should be driving right now.”

Jack frowned, honest confusion. Almost like a child’s. “You know how to drive.”

“Yeah, I do, but - “

“Then you drive.”

“Zimms, we can wait a little, we don’t have to go right - “

“Kenny,” Jack interrupted, voice soft. He wasn’t blinking. “Please.”

The last of whatever resolve Kent melted away, made room for something he refused to name. “Alright, Zimms. I’ll drive.”

“And we’ll practice.”

“Absolutely.” Kent smiled, prayed it was reassuring. Or whatever Jack needed it to be. “We’ll practice.”

-/ \\-

It took two weeks of practices on the rink in the Zimmermanns’ backyard before the one-timer returned, full force, like there had never been a break at all.

And just in time.

Like it did every year, play-off hit like a hurricane, swept everything with it in a heap of gear and roadies and homework done on buses and in hotel rooms and on dinner tables.

It was beautiful.

They made it past the second round with little issue, a couple of injuries, nothing serious. Nothing of note, not with the amount of points they were pulling in - that he and Jack were pulling in.

There were more journalists now, Kent noticed. More questions for Dejardin, for Jack, fuck, for _him_. More teams getting in contact, and for the first time in his life, Kent was truly grateful he had an agent. There was just some shit he wasn’t ready to handle. Didn’t have the time for. With Molyneux, all he had to do was play.

And the other shit he couldn’t get out of.

“Guys, heads up.” Channer grinned, nodded at the TV in the lobby.

“Oh, _fuck_ that,” Kent said, shielding his eyes from the sight of himself - him, Kent Vincent Parson, New York runt - flushed after a game, stick still a hand, a large bruise on his cheek. Exhausted, badly in need of a shower, and that had been the moment the camera showed up. Because of course it had.

”Parson! Zimmermann! One hell of a game out there!” the journalist said, voice tinned on the tiny TV but no less annoying.

To his right, just out of view from the camera, Jack had shot him a panicked look.

And Kent’s grin had widened. ”You bet!”

The journalist smiled back, somehow less slick on TV than he’d been in real life. ”That one-timer you guys pulled off this period was a beaut! What’s the secret? How did you think it up?”

”Euh - ”

Kent – the Kent that was on TV, thank God he hadn’t had a pimple that day – smirked. ”It just sort of happened one day at practice. And as for the secret -” He winked. ” - well, if we just tell ya, it won’t be a secret anymore, eh?”

“Why are we watching this shit?” Kent asked. At his side, Jack was silent. Stiff.

“’cause it’s fucking funny,” Channer shot back. “Shit, they make you look smooth!”

“Fuck you, I _am_ smooth.”

“Tell that to your girlfriend. Oh, wait!” Channer let out a yelp as a pencil flew just past his ear, clattered to the floor. A couple of heads turned in their direction. Kent smiled back.

On TV, the journalist laughed. ”Canada’s growing on you, _eh_?”

”You betcha. Lovely country you guys have. I’m really fortunate to get to play here.”

”Good to hear, son. Now, I’m not gonna keep you any longer, go celebrate your win with your teammates, you certainly deserve it after a match like this! And good luck with the next - ”

The TV shut off.

“What the hell was that for?”

Jack put the remote down, went back to his book. Physics. “You were being very noisy. We were disturbing everyone else.”

Judging by the annoyed looks sent their way, the TV being shut off had been worse, but Kent kept silent.

“Way to be a fucking bore, Zimmermann.”

“I’m your captain.”

“Alternate.”

The hand still holding the remote tightened its hold.

“Do ya see Marron anywhere?” Kent jumped in before he could crush it.

Channer scowled. Returned to his homework.

Beneath the table, a foot knocked into Kent’s. “Merci.”

Barely above a whisper. Kent bit down the urge to touch him. “Anytime, Zimms.”

The smile returned was tight-lipped, but it was there.

*

April 25 7:07 AM. From ‘Ma’

_congratualtions on the finals!!!_

_tell jack good job with that goal_

_and urs <3_

April 31 7.14 AM. From ‘Ma’

_miles supports u_

[picture attached: open?]

May 2 12.03 AM. From ‘Ma’

_give em hell kid_

*

“I’ve never had sleepovers before. Euh, that weren’t roadies.”

”You serious?”

”Ouais.”

”Why not?”

Jack shrugged. ”No one ever invited me, I guess. And I didn’t really have anyone to invite.”

”Shit, man, that’s kinda sad.”

”It’s okay. I’ve got you now, right? Better late than never and that … ”

”Of course you’ve got me. And I’ve got you.”

His fist hit Jack’s arm, lightly, not enough to hurt. Not now. Seconds later, smile only vaguely visible in the darkness of his bedroom, Jack hit back.

Fuck, he loved that boy. Bit it down until his cheek bled. ”Goodnight, Zimms.”

”Bonne nuit, Kenny.”

-/ \\-

Game 1 was in Rouyn-Noranda, a quick thing that left Kent breathless and Jack with a new bruise trailing from waist to shoulder, an aggressive purple as he pulled off his jersey in the dressing room afterwards. Blue the next morning, almost the same shade as his eyes, and Kent’s first thought was how much he wanted to lick it. See if the colour changed again beneath his tongue, if Jack would squirm, or gasp, or _moan_.

He stayed in bed for another five minutes, until Jack all but dragged him out of it. Long enough for his boner to go away.

The second game, there was nothing, the taste of loss too devastating, too bitter as it mixed with humiliation.

1-6.

“We can do better than this, Zimms,” Kent promised into the dark of the hotel room. “I know we can.”

For a long second, there was silence.

“Then why didn’t we?”

_Because those fucking mutts were better. Because Marron kept fucking up. Because you can’t win every time. Because you’re not a god, not like your dad._

“I don’t know.”

The third game … 

”I’ll find ’im,” Kent said before Dejardin could start yelling. “He’s probably just taking a piss.”

Dejardin muttered something in French, but Kent was already out the door, careful to make sure no one followed.

Jack was in his usual spot beside the dumpster, curled into a ball against the wall with his head between his knees. He had half his gear on, missing helmet and gloves, untied shoes instead of skates. At any other point, it would’ve looked hilarious. Ridiculous. Kent didn’t laugh.

”Zimms?”

Jack didn’t move. He stepped closer. ”Zimms, it’s just me.”

There was a hitch in Jack’s breath. He looked up, eyes wet and shining. After a moment, he nodded.

Kent walked the rest of the way to sit down next to him. “They’re worried in there, y’know. Don’t wanna start the game without their best forward.”

”You’re there,” Jack croaked, cleared his throat.

“Yeah, but I can’t do it without ya, can I? Who’s gonna do the one-timer with me if you stay out here?”

Jack opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“No one, that’s who. I need you in there Zimms. The rest of the team, too.” Kent squeezed his shoulder. “And we’ll get them, just you wait and see. We’ll kick their asses to fucking Toronto.”

“Toronto,” Jack repeated.

“That’s right. Now let’s get back in, yeah? It’s cold as balls out here.”

After a moment of hesitation, Jack nodded. It took another couple of breaths before he could fold himself out, and they could rise together, Kent’s hand still on his shoulder. As they walked inside, he let it fall.

The corridors were empty but the noise of the crowd was already beginning to seep through. In half an hour, it’d be almost unbearable. As if they were playing for the fucking Stanley Cup and not the President’s.

Something brushed against his hand. When Kent looked down, Jack’s fingers were inches from his, twitching slightly with the surges and dips of the noise until they finally surged out for Kent’s and twined them together. Kent’s heart leapt up his throat, but he forced it down, gave Jack’s hand a small squeeze. The squeeze back was just on the wrong side of painful, but Kent didn’t pull away, not until they reached the dressing room. Almost immediately, his hand felt cold.

”And the A’s fucking here!” Channer yelled.

”Fucking finally. Where were you guys, getting it off in a back alley somewhere?” someone asked – Marron, the _fucker_ \- and Kent opened his mouth, ready for whatever retort would shut him up, but Dejardin’s voice tore through it all before he had the chance.

”Get into your gear now! What were you thinking, disappearing like that? Game starts in fifteen minutes!”

”Yes, sir,” Kent muttered. Jack brushed past him without another word, not stopping until he was safe by his stall.

We’ll get ’em, Kent mouthed, received a small nod in return. It would do.

Only when his skates hit the ice did the hints of worry still in the back of his mind fade away, replaced by a calm nothing else could bring. There was a stick in his hands, a jersey on his back and Jack just behind him.

He could take on the fucking world.

They kept close during warm-ups, only separating at the first face-off, Cookie between them, the Huskies bent down on the other side. The ref skated over. The crowd held its breath. Time stopped.

The puck dropped.

Marron’s stick hit the puck, but it was too late, too little force. A Husky forced himself in front of Cookie, grabbed the puck and passed to a teammate. Kent sent a last, brief look Jack’s way before skating off, following the puck as he’d done for ten years. Muscle memory now.

The huskies held on, hip-checked first Channer, then Ander out of the way. Between the pipes, Cheeky went down on his shins, clearly thrown off by an attack that quick, but ready nevertheless. Had to be.

Kent came in from the side, waited just until the Husky raised his stick to shoot and Jack checked another out of the way to swoop in and _run_ , gone as quickly as he’d arrived.

A good few feet off, Channer had picked himself back up, and Kent passed with a flick of the wrist before upping his speed, circumventing a Husky before receiving the puck again. They cleared centre ice, Channer parallel, Jack on the other side.

Another pass nearly elicited a fight, but Channer passed before throwing himself down, and Jack received, shot towards Kent in a move they’d later see analysed by a motherfucker in a suit. It had just been timing, waiting until all three Huskies moving in were disordered enough for a puck to pass through. Timing and strength and precision.

Nothing out of the ordinary, except it _was_.

A D-man skated forward, and Kent swirled, took quick note of Jack’s position, his raised stick, used as much of the momentum as possible to shoot. Ended with a step to the side before the D-man could hit.

The puck flew across the ice, disappeared again as Jack’ stick came down, perfectly timed, perfectly placed.

Perfect.

The goalie jumped, but it was too late. The horn had already blown.

Kent didn’t think he’d ever get tired of that move. _Their_ move.

They met in the middle, collided like asteroids, stayed a little bit too close to each other as they made their way away from the offence, but it was a celly. Other rules counted for cellies.

Against Kent’s ear, Jack’s breaths were coming our harsh and quick, but it was the game this time, the one-timer, the goal.

”See?” Kent whispered. ”We’ll get ’em.”

And Jack nodded, lingered for one more second before heading for centre ice. And Kent followed, because Kent always followed.

In the fourth game, the Huskies scored within three minutes, tore through the Océanic defence as if it was made of a spider’s web, left the offence completely in the dust.

Another face-off was lost, and it was by pure luck only that Kent caught the puck under the nose of an advancing Husky. He barely managed to turn, however, before another popped up. There was no time to think, no time to pass, and all Kent could do was be grateful there was no hit.

Within seconds – and what the fuck were they _doing_ \- the puck had made it to the Océanic defensive zone, not quite at the blue line, but that was only a matter of time. Ander was good, _raging_ , but even he could only do so much ganged up on, and so Kent upped his speed.

Finally, just as Ander stumbled back, he managed to stick out his stick, push the puck to the side. Jack was too far away still, ready to run in whatever direction he needed to, but Marron was there. He’d have to do.

Except he didn’t.

It wasn’t that the Husky was quicker, Kent knew he could’ve made it, but still - 

He grit his teeth. No use thinking, not yet, not with Cheeky on his knees and Jack zoning in, and two Huskies way too fucking close - 

The exact moment the shot was made was clear, a split second of still. The slight change of the hold, a decrease in speed. Small details, but Kent had always been good at those. He opened his mouth, but before any sound came out, Jack was there, skating head-on into the Husky before his stick could raise more than a couple of inches. The fight would break out within seconds, the whistle, but the puck was free.

Wouldn’t be for long.

Kent took off on one skate, pushed himself forward with the other in a way that could send him tumbling on the ice, but it could also be enough. Would have been, had another body not rammed into his, blue and white and way too familiar. Neither fell, somehow steadied on each other, but a Husky raced by them, air singing, sent the puck ahead with a hard slapshot.

Pushing Kent down on the ice, Marron set off, but it was too late.

The horn blew, and Kent was left on the ice with an ache in his tail bone and an anger only simmering now bubbling over. It had been a long time coming, a long fucking time, but in that moment, Kent wanted nothing more than to break his stick over the fucker’s head – or, even better, use the guy’s own. Had there been a chance of success without getting thrown out of the game, he would have.

As it was, he gritted his teeth, stood up, prepared for the next face-off.

Thought.

When they entered the dressing room, the anger had dried up, now heavy and dense in the pit of Kent’s stomach. His head was clear.

With a small sound, Marron tore off his helmet. It hit the floor with a hard thud, accompanied by a string of swears.

”Calm the fuck down, ’captain’,” Kent muttered, low enough to be discreet, loud enough to be heard. Carefully, he opened a water bottle.

”Don’t tell me what to do, fif,” Marron spat.

Jack stiffened. The dressing room didn’t go quiet, but it was a near fucking thing.

Bull’s eye.

”The fuck’d you just call me?” Kent asked, mixed disbelief with ice.

”I called you a fucking fif! It is what you are, is it not?” He strode over to Kent, chest out, head held high. Looking for a fight, and they both knew it.

”Your game won’t get better by calling me a faggot,” Kent said, voice carefully calm. Too calm.

There was a clatter. Kent didn’t look over.

”But it’s true, isn’t it? That you are a fucking pédale? You and Zimmermann both?”

“Well, shit, thought about that, haven’t ya?”

”So what do you do when we are not here?” Marron continued, voice rising ever higher. The stench of his sweat was overwhelming from the few inches separating him and Kent. ”Do you have each other in the dressing room? Or on the fucking ice?”

“Why, do ya wanna watch?” Kent snickered. “Or did something happen with you and Gagny that we don't - “

The fist wasn’t unexpected, not by a long fucking shot, but still sudden. Squeezing his eyes shut, Kent took the hit, ignored the pain, made sure to hit the ground as loudly as possible.

“Crisse de câlice!” someone yelled.

Kent squeezed his eyes shut, waited for a kick, another hit, the sound of Marron being held back. Whatever came first.

Held back. No time for relief, not yet.

“What the fuck is going on here??”

Not quite yet.

“Marron just fucking punched Parser,” Channer said. Like he could barely believe it himself.

Dejardin glanced at Marron, safe with Cheeky on one side and Cookie on the other, red-faced and disgusting, then down at Kent, who held his hand to his cheek. His lip had split. He’d deal with that later.

“Why – tant pis. Someone get Parson up, Marron, you know the rules, no fucking fighting in the dressing room!”

“He started it, he - “

“Tais-toi! This is a championship, not a kindergarten! You cannot act like this, you _know_ that!” He pinched his nose. “Assieds-tu, on nous parla postérieurement. The rest of you, get ready for next period.”

“Et Parson?”

Dejardin glanced at Kent who stared back, hand still on his cheek. Daring him. “Parson rentra.”

“Mais, il - “

“On a besoin de lui!”

It took everything Kent had not to grin. Some day, he might let the other guys know his French wasn’t as abysmal as they thought. This wasn’t that day. “What about me?”

Dejardin glanced at him. “You get back out on the ice. Win this for us.”

With that, he grabbed hold of Marron’s jersey, pushed him down on the bench. “T’change.”

Marron’s eyes fell on Kent, wide and burning, but Kent ignored him, grabbed hold of Cookie’s outstretched hand and got to his feet. Wiped the now-drying blood from his chin. Hurt like a bitch, but he’d live. He always did.

“Was that necessary?” Jack asked later, whispered it across the few feet of air between their beds. In the darkness, Kent couldn’t see his face.

“He was gonna throw the game. I had to do something.”

Silence fell. For a moment, Kent almost thought Jack had fallen asleep.

“You scare me sometimes, Kenny.”

A whisper, a broken sound.

Kent’s hand clenched in his pillow. “You scare me sometimes, too, Zimms.”

-/ \\-

And the fifth.

Receiving the puck, Channer set off, Jack and what looked like half the Husky teams hot on his heels. New guys that hadn’t been on the ice much for the first two periods. A gamble. Or a strategy.

The puck was passed back and forth, always just out of reach for Huskies, closer by every turn. Kent followed by the side, received when he had to, passed it on as swiftly as he could.

Halfway across the defensive zone, Jack made move to pass the puck to Channer again. The Huskies were fooled but Kent wasn’t. With a flick of the wrist, the puck went left instead of right, landed perfectly at Kent’s stick, who sent it over the blue line just as Channer’s skate did, followed by Jack a moment later. His eyes were on the goal, nowhere near Kent, and still he felt them on him. The expectation. The fears, the affection, the friendship. Everything they were.

And so he breathed, calculated, lifted his stick. Passed.

The slapshot that followed was a thing of true beauty. Always was. Kent didn’t think he’d ever get tired of watching the curve of Jack’s body and stick work together to create that perfect shot. The perfect goal.

Theirs.

They met briefly in the celly, no time to linger, but with an intensity that made the breath seize in Kent’s throat and his heart beat ever faster.

On his way back to centre ice, he bumped fists with Channer.

The face-off was a brief and futile struggle, the puck sent off without any hint of shake in Jack’s hands. Side-stepping a Husky, Kent caught it, sped past another before making eye contact with a D-man and passing to Channer. He came to a halt just off the blue line, too close the goalie’s liking, and Kent grinned back.

The puck never came. A D-man pummelled himself into Channer stuck too close to the boards, forced him to make a hurried pass to Jack. On its way, the puck was caught by a Husky who immediately sent a long shot in the other direction.

Letting out a breathless string of curses, Kent set to running, ignored whatever the goalie yelled after him.

The Husky passed to a teammate, skated forward, positioned himself near the Océanic goal like Kent had only moments before. The perfect spot for a one-timer, and what a fucking joke that would be. The Husky with the puck slammed his stick down, missed the puck by maybe an inch as a blue and white D-man the size of a fucking ox slammed himself into him from behind. A loud cry tore through the air as they tumbled down together, sent a flinch of sympathy through the crowd.

Or bloodlust. It was hard to tell sometimes.

A whistle blew, and the game came to a stop.

Kent made his way over, gave a brief nod to the D-man who nodded back, face grave, jaw set. At first glance, the Husky on the ice seemed okay, but the hit had been on the dirtier side. They weren’t going to get off that one easy.

The refs discussed together at centre ice with their heads bent together, matching frowns. Glances at the young man being helped off the ice.

Five minutes’ penalty.

Five minutes’ powerplay.

Kent bit his lip. It was possible to come back from 2-3. 2-4 … less possible. There was no room for a goal. Not unless they wanted another game, a last chance at the President’s Cup.

”Obliterate those fuckers,” the D-man muttered on his way to the sin bin.

”Will do,” Kent promised.

They got back into position. The puck dropped.

Jack’s stick didn’t even get to touch it.

A Husky with a scar on his forehead caught the puck skating and headed straight for the goal, but Kent would be fucking _damned_ if he’d let him get that far. He set off in pursuit, felt and ignored the way his thighs burned in protest. The puck was passed to another, but Kent was faster. With a quick feint, he stole the puck from underneath the fucker’s nose and turned around, left him behind in a small wave of shredded ice.

Slow motherfuckers had nothing on him.

He passed the puck off to Cookie, who passed to Channer. Channer passed to Jack, who passed to Kent, who passed it back. Around them, the Huskies were scrambling, trying to move from one to the other and never fast enough to catch the puck mid-flight.

Keep the puck and don’t let the fuckers score, coach Walker said in mind. But don’t take any chances.

From the sin bin, the D-man was watching intently, head moving as if he was at a tennis match.

Two minutes into the penalty, a fucking idiot of a Husky passed the blue line with the puck several feet behind. Pure luck, and the guy skated off towards his own box, scowling all the while.

”Good speed, bro,” Kent smiled and was promptly flipped off before turning to Jack and sending him a look, returned with a slight nod. He said something to Channer, who nodded as well.

The puck dropped, was sent to the side, and Kent set off without wasting a beat. Close behind was Jack, the puck nestled firmly in the crook of his stick. Channer as well. Cookie.

They moved swiftly, with Kent in the lead, passed whenever a Husky or two got too close, never let it stay with one person for more than a couple of seconds at a time.

In the end, shortly after passing the blue line, Kent took the shot on a whim. Perhaps he should’ve waited for Jack, perhaps for Channer. Perhaps it really was the right time. But he hit, just as Jack pushed off a Husky. A penalty was inevitable, but the puck went off Kent’s stick, just above the goalie’s shoulder.

The horn blew.

Kent’s fist pumped the air.

3-3.

A Husky shouldered past Jack, passed the puck to a teammate by centre ice who got it to a third by the goal before Kent could make it anywhere near.

3-4.

The puck bounced off the goalie’s glove and back onto the ice where Channer was coming back from a swirl around a D-man. He didn’t see the puck, but his stick sent it firmly back in, just to the right of the goalie’s skate. They stood together looking equally dumbfounded until Kent checked Channer to the side and slapped his back. Yelled into his ear.

4-4.

In the corner of Kent’s eye, Jack raised his stick.

The Husky glanced over. Kent grinned.

For the eternity of a second, all was perfectly still. Then, the horn blew, another following a second later. The crowd erupted, and Kent felt his lungs expand.

They’d done it.

They’d actually fucking done it.

Jack was still at the goal, hands gripped tightly around the stick, staring back at Kent with wide eyes. Despite the chaos around them, not a single one of his muscles seemed to be moving.

And Kent crossed the last couple of feet between them, stumbled slightly at the end before steadying himself with Jack’s hands on his arms.

”We got ’em.”

Slowly, Jack nodded. He still wasn’t blinking.

”We fucking kicked those sons of bitches’ asses!”

Jack nodded again. A smile began creeping onto his face, and Kent fought down the urge to kiss it, enveloped him in a hug instead. Jack tensed up, but after a few seconds, strong arms tentatively wrapped around Kent’s lower back, pulled him close. The noise of the crowd was flowing between them, but Kent allowed himself to move in even closer, biting his lip as Jack’s head came to rest lightly on his. Through their gear, Jack’s chest was rising and falling, a steady rhythm that soon matched Kent’s.

He didn’t know how long they stood like that. It could’ve been an hour, or just a few seconds. Too long, definitely. Not long enough.

The holler could be heard from far away, but Kent didn’t notice the Océanic before he slammed into them. Moments later, another joined, then another, and one more. In the midst of the chaos, Kent tried not to be disappointed when Jack’s arms slid back from around his waist.

They were President’s Cup champions.

And Jack was still looking at him, a pool of blue matching the sea around them, a look in them that left Kent speechless, _breathless_ , and more than a little turned on.

“We won!” someone yelled, and Jack looked away.

”Fuck yeah, we did!” Kent returned, cleared his throat when his voice broke mid-word. Someone laughed. They were all laughing.

Eventually, they pulled apart from one another, shook hands, Jack handed him the Cup – the fucking President’s Cup – and he nearly dropped it.

It was heavier than it looked like, he defended himself, as if anyone could hear his words above the chaos.

Not that Kent minded. Chaos was where he thrived, and chaos thrived within him.

At some point, they made it back to the dressing room. Someone handed him a beer, and he took it, drank to the cheers of the guys around him. Some were shirtless. Kent wasn’t, not yet. Someone was singing. Others joined in, and beer was spilled all over Kent’s flannel – he’d changed, showered, hopefully – and all he could do was laugh and drink some more. Nothing fucking mattered. The alcohol was buzzing beneath his skin, mixed dangerously with leftover adrenaline and exhaustion. Pure intoxication, pure elation.

Jack wasn’t there. It was a sudden thought, a sudden realisation hitting well beyond midnight, impossible to ignore once it was there. Downing the rest of his beer – no, champagne, now – Kent slipped out of the dressing room, smirking something about having to piss.

It took only minutes to find him, on the ground by the backdoor, by the dumpster. Head in his hands, back rising and falling unevenly. No tears, no noise.

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent said, voice too loud in the freezing night air. “You alright?”

A small whimper rose between them. Still no tears.

Kent squatted down, placed a tentative hand on Jack’s shoulder. ”Hey … we won, Zimms. It’s okay, we won. It’s done.”

Jack nodded but didn’t lift his head. His eyes were shut tight, but the air fighting its way in and out was slowing down.

“You can relax now,” Kent continued, rubbed at the worn-out cotton covering Jack’s shoulder. ”We’re champions – you were awesome out there. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Jack nodded again but the muscles beneath Kent’s hands tensed. His breathing stalled.

”I’m – I’m gonna find your parents,” Kent said. ”Your Dad’s in there, I just saw him - “

He barely got up before Jack’s hand shot out, grabbed a fistful of Kent’s shirt and all but yanked him down on the ground with him. Kent braced himself with his hands, cried out, but - 

”You can’t,” Jack said, forced each word out. ”Please … ” He bit in a breath, locked his jaw tight around it.

”Okay,” Kent said. ”I won’t. Just … let go of me, please? I’ll fall on ya.”

For a second, the grip tightened even more, nearly pulled Kent down, but then Jack’s eyes widened, and his hand fell as if burned. His arms returned to his knees, drew them impossibly close to his chest.

Kent sat down in a squat. Took a breath, swallowed the anger, the confusion. Moved to sit next to Jack.

”They can’t know.”

“Know what?”

Jack opened his mouth, closed it again. Shook his head. ”Doesn’t matter. I’ve got it under control.”

”Got what under control?”

Another shake of his head. His hair had gotten long. ”I’ve got it, alright? Just … just trust me, alright?”

Blue eyes, impossibly blue, impossibly wide, drilled into Kent’s. He licked his lips.

Kent looked away. ”Yeah … yeah, I trust you.” He cleared his throat. ”Can we go in, though? I’m freezing my balls off.”

”You go,” Jack said. ”I’ll be there in a second.”

”You sure?”

”Yes.”

The word was followed by a smile, small and thin and nothing like the one Kent had wanted to kiss on the ice. He still wanted to kiss him, grab him by his t-shirt and drag him close and kiss him until they were both warm and Jack’s breaths were ragged only from what Kent did to him, but that was just life now.

”I’ll see ya inside,” he smiled back, got up, winced at the pull in his legs.

”See ya,” Jack echoed softly.

Kent let the door shut behind him as softly as he could, pushed down the urge to go back out. Just before it closed, he caught a glimpse of Jack, still on the ground, legs now extended. As Kent watched, he reached inside his pocket, pulled out a small, orange bottle. Unscrewed the lid.

The door closed before he could see any more.

*

When he finally made it back to the hotel, hours later, drunk enough to stumble but not enough to do something he’d regret, Jack was already there, covers pulled up to his ears, one foot peeking out. Careful, Kent sat down on the floor next to him, face inches from his. Warm breath hit him, mixed with his own, calming in its familiarity and thrilling in a way Kent was too drunk to fully recognise. He closed his eyes.

They were fucking champions, the two of them. Together.

They were fucking invincible.


	3. 2008/09

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack gets the C, the Memorial Cup is won, and Kent gets drafted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. This is the chapter. Third year, the 34 days, the draft. Boy, I've looked forward to this, all 44,000 words of it.
> 
> As for warnings, there are a lot. The sexual content tag is coming into effect (some semi-public), Jack takes an overdose, there is a lot of vomiting and blood. General internalised homophobia and self-hatred. Fun stuff. If there's anything I need to warn more clearly about, let me know.
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by 'Who Wants To Live Forever' by Queen, with a brief visit from 'The Show Must Go On'.

Outside, far away, a premature firework went off. There’d be more as night turned to day, to night again, but there it was. Midnight. Eighteen.

Kent moved to his side. The moon was shining, illuminating everything in a soft glow that changed nothing. The room was the same it had been Christmas. Same white walls, same tree outside of the window. Still new, somehow. Sterile. No moon could change that.

The bed, at least, was his, the same one he’d slept in since he was six when he and his Ma were finally able to be apart again after Dad left. In a new house, a new state, and it still creaked in the same places it always had. And for once, it brought him no comfort. He turned at night, and the sounds startled him. He opened his eyes in the morning, and the grey-ish bed spread that had seen too many washings shocked him awake.

In the corner of the room, two boxes still stood unpacked. He’d opened one of them once, in the first week of summer, but closed it again. Everything in it belonged to him, but it wasn’t his. Not anymore.

Closing his eyes, he thought of dark blue bed spreads, posters urging improvement. A small room with a rose bed outside the window so he couldn’t sneak out at night, people he really knew nothing about asleep upstairs. The rink, cold and unforgiving, the only place he’d ever felt he truly belonged.

And he thought of Jack, beautiful, blue-eyed Jack, no matter how much he tried to stop.

In the darkness, Kent’s lip curled into a smile.

_”Come on, Zimms, you gotta at least try!”_

_”I like water when it’s _solid_ , Kenny!” Jack laughed, bright red from either sunburn or embarrassment._

_And Kent laughed, too, because he always did these days. ”Do you even know how to swim?”_

_Jack’s face turned impossibly redder as he looked everywhere but at Kent who only laughed harder, right until Jack walked over and pushed him down into the water._

Another firework went off in the distance as he came, a whine stifled in the pillow. Blue eyes behind his own, sparkling with mirth.

Home.

*

”Parser, my _man_!”

Kent smirked, raised his fist to meet Channer’s. ”Good to see you, too, Chan. Got uglier over the summer, I see. Didn’t think that was possible.”

”And you’re as short as always. Or are you growing down now?”

”Fuck you.”

”Fuck yourself.”

”I’ve got people for that.”

”’course you do, Parser. They got nice dicks?”

”Better than yours.”

”Like you’ve got anything worth praising.”

”Right back atcha.”

A grin stretched across Kent’s face, found its match on Channer’s, and before he knew it, he was pulled in for a hug. Brief, gratuitous back slaps, but a hug nonetheless.

”Fuck, you gettin’ sentimental or something?”

Channer shrugged. ”It’s our last year. Who the fuck knows where we’ll be this time next year.”

”In the NHL.”

Sure, spitfire, but Channer didn’t grin. “’course, Parser. ‘course we will.”

“What’s wrong?”

Running a hand through his hair, Channer shifted his weight. “You heard about Tremmer?”

“That he’s off the team, yeah.”

Channer nodded. Too nonchalant. “You heard what shit he took?”

Kent shrugged. “Steroids or something. Who cares, he’s out.”

“Did you ever … you know, notice?”

“I didn’t. Shit, is that why you’re so touchy-feely today? Stay away from that shit, and you’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s that simple.”

“I know, just … “

“What?”

“You ever feel tempted?”

Kent frowned. “To dope?”

Channer shrugged. “To be better. Whatever it takes.”

Whatever the cost. The injuries, the training regiments, the constant lack of time. The lies. Eyes on the bench, they know, they _can’t know_ \- “Of course I do. Why do ya think I stay in the rink all the fucking time?”

“Right.” Channer cleared his throat. “Sorry, that was - “

“It’s fine.”

A silence stretched between them, rough, heavy.

“I should probably go change. You know if Zimms is here yet?”

“Yeah, he came in just before I did. Tell him hi from me.”

No reaction, not visibly. “Tell ‘im yourself.”

Channer shrugged. “I think he’d appreciate it from you more.”

 _Fucker_. “True. I’d stay out here for a while if I was you. He can get kinda loud.”

With a wink, Kent pulled his bag up his shoulder, left with the sound of Channer’s laughter echoing behind him. The pit of his stomach felt heavy, as if he’d eaten too much, had too much to drink.

Tremblay. He’d almost forgotten. Adrien Tremblay with the cute girlfriend and the slapshots.

Pushing the thought away, Kent reached out for the door handle, only to jump back as the door swung open and someone in blue and white stepped out, pale blue eyes widening as they met his.

“Kenny?”

It wasn’t fair, truly wasn’t fucking fair, how Jack could stop his heart with just one fucking nickname. How he could make Kent feel faint with the slightest hint of a smile.

”Heya, Zimms. Didja miss me?”

”Of course.”

Not even a second of hesitation, not a flicker in the smile still on his face. Kent was going to miss him so much he could barely breathe. ”Nice C. Looks good on ya.”

Jack glanced down, as if the letter on his chest was something he could forget. “Thanks. Won’t be able to do it without your A.”

Kent nodded. “Yeah, probably not.”

“Perhaps it’ll make you put in some work, too. Having the A.”

”Fuck you, Zimms, I work just as hard as you.”

“Sure thing, Kenny.”

“Y’know what,” Kent slapped his shoulder. “I’ll prove it to ya. Any rookies here yet?”

“Yeah, they’re getting changed - “

“Perfect. Come on, let’s scare the shit out of them.”

“Why would we - “

“Put them in their place! Make sure we got their respect, y’know. Have some fun.”

“I really don’t think - “

“Come on, Zimms, don’t be such a fucking stick in the mud, just follow me. Do as I do.”

Jack opened his mouth, but it was too late. Kent shot him a grin, opened the door, pulled him in by his sleeve.

They had a year. Kent would be damned if they didn’t make the best of it.

“Are you staying?” Jack asked after practice, breaths still short.

Kent grinned, ignored the way his heart swelled. “Of course I am.”

There were no odd looks this time. Perhaps it was the intimidation (“Fun, Zimms, fun!”), perhaps the point streaks the year before, the broken records in their wake. The knowledge that this really was their last year, all they had to finish the foundation for the future they were making for themselves. Before it was too late, and they’d missed their shot.

As if either of them would let that happen. And so, together, they took every single one given, slammed them back into the goal. Kent just had to make sure it wasn’t his own, on their later nights when his mind felt as frayed as his muscles and Jack’s skin and eyes shone in the light of the rink. In those moments, the urge to kiss him was like a physical ache overshadowing even the screams of his muscles, and Kent had to fight not to succumb to it. As sweet as it would be. As much as it would hurt.

Good thing the showers in the dressing room were always cold. He hadn’t appreciated that as much in his first year as he should have.

*

Throwing his head back, Kent downed another shot of something bright orange that was just about the best fucking thing he’d ever tasted. Smirking to no one in particular, he high-fived a guy to his right. There were a lot of things he could say about Moully, but the guy knew how to throw a fucking party.

A girl with a dyed red bob and cigarette breath threw her arms around his neck, pressed their mouths together, and Kent kissed back. Cigarettes and tongue studs, fucking disgusting, but through the haze of alcohol and cat calls from his teammates, kind of fun. Only when her hand started travelling down the front of his shirt did he gently push her back, nipped her bottom lip one last time in apology. She disappeared with a pout, lost in the sea of people swirling around each other in the small bungalow, only a hint of cherry perfume and the taste of smoke on his tongue as proof that she was ever there.

A hand came down on his back. Hard. Drunk.

”Fuck you, Parse, you just get all of them!” Channer laughed. ”Seriously, what’s your secret?”

”Asshole white boy charm,” Kent replied, removed the nauseating taste in his mouth with a nearby can of beer. ”Chicks just can’t get enough of it.”

Another cackle, another slap to his back. ”Fuck you, man!”

Kent shrugged. ”Or maybe it’s Maybelline.”

Another laugh, too close to Kent’s ear, a third slap. A fourth, and he’d have a bruise.

”You seen Zimms anywhere?” Kent asked, smirked at a passing girl and got a cup of clear liquid in return. The alcohol still stung, but not as much as it once had.

”Always fucking Zimmermann.” Channer shook his head. ”I don’t know, man, I think I saw him in the kitchen, like, half an hour ago. What time is it even?”

Kent pointed to the clock on a nearby wall. Channer squinted but quickly gave up, turned to ogle a blonde in a short skirt instead.

”I’mma go look for him.”

Channer shrugged. ”Gotta look out for your man, Parser. Chicks wish they had a boyfriend like you.”

Sticking up his middle finger, Kent walked off.

There was no Jack in the kitchen, nor in the ground floor bathroom. That, instead, held the new Océanic goalie and the tallest girl Kent had ever seen, the latter on her knees between -

Closing the door, he glanced down at the can in his hand. He was going to need _way_ more of that if he ever wanted to forget what he just saw. Found some, too, in a dresser for some reason he couldn’t care less about. It tasted like the chemicals that sometimes lingered in his Ma’s scrubs after a long day but he downed it anyway, grimaced as it went down his throat.

Any more would be a bad idea, he knew. At a party with his teammates, on his way to find Jack.

He wasn’t that fucking stupid.

When he finally found him, it was in a living room he could swear he’d passed through at least twice. Relief – or content, content was better – settled in Kent’s stomach, a little too warm, but that had to be the alcohol. Sauntering over, he took one look at the guy on the cushion next to Jack, the couple inches of space between them, and plopped down in what was technically Jack’s lap.

”’sup, Zimms. Didja miss me?”

”Always,” Jack smiled. Dopey. Didn’t push him off.

”Is this party the fucking best or is this party the fucking _best_?” He threw his head back again, almost fell back onto the other guy on the couch (and what the fuck was his name again?), saved in the last moment by a large, warm hand on his lower back. That didn’t move.

”Careful,” Jack whispered, a rough tint to his voice that did absolutely nothing good to the state of Kent’s stomach. Or his pants.

”My hero,” he deadpanned, hid a smile at Jack’s snort in another gulp of burning liquid. Pointed to his cup. ”Does yours taste like shit, too?”

”No, I kinda like it.”

”Seriously?” Kent frowned. Jack’s drink looked exactly like his own.

”Yup.” Popped p. So fucking cute Kent could fucking die. ”Wanna try it?”

A traitorous part of Kent’s brain, one he needed to get the fuck under control, decided to focus on how Jack’s eyes were most definitely on the lower part of his face. In his fucking dreams. Still, Kent licked his lips. Alcohol was drying. Before his tongue could retreat, Jack’s eyes flickered down. Back up to Kent’s.

”Hey, guys! Over here!”

Kent’s head whipped to the side. A few feet from them, sneaking up like the little bitch he was, Moully was holding up a camera, one eye shut, the other hidden behind the lens.

”Souriez!”

On reflex, Kent grinned, butted his head against Jack’s. Tried not to think of how their heads could meet in other ways. That wouldn’t look good to a camera. At his side, invisible to anyone but the lens, Jack smiled nervously, more at Kent than Moully.

The blitz flared, lit up the eternal dusk of the party for one heart-stopping moment.

”Good?” Kent asked, let the moment of Jack’s head against his live a little longer.

”Awesome,” Moully grinned, a blink of an eye before disappearing.

”Fucking awesome,” Jack whispered.

Kent shivered. ”Fucking awesome.”

Beneath his thighs and on his lower back, Jack was a constant presence, all but burning through his clothes and into Kent’s very core. As if he wasn’t already there.

-/ \\-

Oct. 8 4.57 PM. From ‘Ma’

_good luck tonight_

_[picture attached: open?]_

birthday boi says good luck 2 :D

Oct 16 7.32 AM. From ‘Ma’

_tell jack good goal_

_and congrats on the assist <3_

Oct 31 3.32 PM. From ‘Ma’

_[picture attached: open?]_

_baby spider :D_

_u doing anythn 4 halloween?_

*

”Didja see Coach’s face??”

Jack’s grin widened. ”Hard not to. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

”That wasn’t a sacrifice, that was a fucking privilege.”

Jack snorted, and Kent bumped their shoulders together, almost knocked the keys out of Jack’s hand. ”Admit it, you’d have done it, too.”

”I wouldn’t.”

”You would!”

”I wouldn’t! You’re the one that’s insane!”

”I’m not insane!”

A loud slam ended the conversation.

”Goddammit, boys, how many times do I have to tell you?” Bad Bob Zimmermann yelled from the kitchen.

They locked eyes, moments before succumbing to another round of laughter.

”Désolé, papa!” Jack yelled, voice as warm as the shoulder still pressed against Kent’s.

Muttering something in French, Bad Bob walked out of the kitchen, dried his hands in his apron. Green this time. With a giant turkey on the front. ”Teach him some manners, would you, Kent?”

”Don’t think y’want me to do that, Mr. Z.”

”You’re right, probably not.” With a smile, he pulled his son in for a quick hug, and Kent found himself smiling again. He’d never met a boy his age who willingly hugged his parents in front of his friends before, but then again, he’d never met anyone like Jack.

”Kenny’s staying the night,” Jack informed his father who nodded, the ghost of a smile on the edge of his mouth.

”Of course he is. We eat in ten minutes, and please be on time today. Kent, just wash your clothes here, I don’t want it stinking up the house.”

Kent glipped, pulled himself together. ”Thanks mr. Z.”

“Of course. Actually, Jack, why don’t you go put on the laundry, Kent can help me with dinner.”

“Papa - “

“Sure thing, Mr. Z.”

Bad Bob smiled, handed Kent a potato peeler, pointed to the sink. “When you’re done, they need to be shredded. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to get through it all.”

”You don’t have to suck up to Papa,” Jack whispered when he turned his back.

”I’m not sucking up!”

”He’s not that special.” Kent raised an eyebrow. ”Okay, he is, but … he doesn’t deserve a hero worship. You know he’s a fucking dork.”

”Don’t worry, I know you’re a family of fucking nerds. Honour that and get your Maths book out after dinner, eh?”

Jack groaned, and Kent laughed, pushed him out of the kitchen and headed for the sink. Raised an eyebrow. “Shit, you guys having more people over?”

“It’s for the weekend,” Bad Bob replied, stirred something on the stove. “Some of us old farts getting together to remember the ones that aren’t coming anymore. We do it every year.”

“You’re not that old.”

“No, we’re not, but hockey’s an unforgiving sport. Too many injuries, concussions, fast cars, you name it. Cancer. Pneumonia.”

Kent frowned. “Pneumonia?”

Even with his back turned, Kent could see Bad Bob smile, but there was no humour in it. “It was the eighties, Kent. Hockey’s not an island.”

The potato in Kent’s hand slipped, would have hit the floor if he hadn’t caught it. Gripped a little too hard. “Who?” It was out before Kent could think it through, too rough. Too much. “Sorry, that’s – you don’t have to - “

“Dylan Perrault.”

All-Star. Goalie of the year. Cheeky had a poster of him in his room.

“He introduced me and Alicia,” Bad Bob continued, but not to Kent. “Knew some people in media.” Another smile, just as stiff, just as distant. “They died, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent said, because there was nothing else he could say.

“What is, is. It’s been a long time, now. And those we honour are never really gone.” Another smile, real this time. “Just reminds you to be careful, eh?”

Kent nodded.

“And keep it to yourself, what I just told you. I don’t think his family ever knew.”

“I will.”

A hand came down on Kent’s shoulder, squeezed for just a moment. “I know you will.”

Kent stiffened, opened his mouth to ask, to deny, to confirm, but the door to the kitchen opened before he could, revealed Jack with a basket on his hip.

“Papa, où est le – is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” Bad Bob replied, smile back in full force. “I was just teaching Kent your aunt Melissa’s latke recipe. I’m not quite sure he’s getting it, though.”

Jack nodded, not quite convinced. “Kenny’s not very good in a kitchen.”

“He’s right,” Kent said, tried to smile, too. Almost succeeded.

“Good thing he’s got you, then, eh?”

“Very funny, Papa.”

“I think it’s funny,” Kent said, threw a potato peel at Jack. Laughed at his face when it fell into the basket.

And Bad Bob laughed, too, loud and free. Same laugh as Jack sometimes did. Rare and precious.

“Wash your own clothes next time,” Jack muttered and threw the potato peel back at Kent who stuck out his tongue. Ignored the way Bad Bob was smiling to no one in particular.

-/ \\-

“Number 14, Picard, two minutes for high-sticking.”

Kent swore under his breath, made sure to slap Earl Grey’s shoulder on his way to the sin bin.

At the face-off circle, Jack bent down, face turned away from Kent. Jaw set, if he knew him right. And he did.

The puck flew, shot off by a stick, hit by another, landed just short of Moully whose eyes widened in a way that was almost comical. Another swear stayed unsaid, no fucking breath to waste for Kent to make it in time and send the puck off in Jack’s direction. He didn’t see if it went where it had to, not before a large body slammed into him. The weight was mostly held back, the guy dug down the heel of his skate, an accident, but it was enough to send Kent stumbling.

Blue and white.

”Merde, pardon!”

Fuckhead, Kent didn’t say. No fucking breath.

A yell and the sound of sticks clacking together got his attention, brought his legs to movement before his brain could fully catch up.

Jack’s brows were furrowed in concentration, eyes firmly on the puck. To his right, a Moosehead inches from his face kept glancing over. Distracted.

Halfway there, Kent turned, set off towards the goal. It would be seconds, if he was lucky.

”Fucking watch it!”

Macs said nothing, nothing Kent heard anyway, but he took a step aside, narrowly missed the Moosehead he’d been heading for. Who would make it to the fight by the boards soon. But too late.

_Motherfuckers._

Coming to a moment’s halt just off the defensive team, Kent bit back a grimace. The next fucker that accidentally skated into him instead of a Moosehead was going to fucking regret it.

As predicted, the puck came loose, flew over the ice, and Kent flew with it. Reaching out his stick, he caught it just under the nose of a Moosehead, left within the second. Out of reach.

Had hockey been a game that allowed for time, Kent would’ve stuck out his tongue. One day, he would anyway. Just to see what would happen. But for now, he ran, left everyone else behind in a spray of ice. As always.

Between the pipes, the goalie bent down, eyes firm on his every move. Smart guy.

In the corners of his eye, flashes of red moved in and out, blue, too, but those didn’t matter. Not yet. Between one breath and the next, Kent lifted his stick, aimed, noticed a flash of red far, far too late.

The pain of the hit was immediate, forgotten as soon as he met the ice, hard and unforgiving, cold against his cheek. No helmet, he noted distantly. His hair was wet.

His head hurt.

And once the thought was there, it was impossible to think of anything else, anything other than the thuds just inside his skull. The heat by his ear, burning, _scorching_. Even his eyes hurt, and so he closed them.

There was noise, too, too much, thousands of voices melding together, punching him in the face, and he wished they’d stop. Just _stop_.

”Fuck, Kenny!"

Jack.

Something turned in Kent’s stomach. If it was the sandwich he’d eaten for dinner or something much worse, he didn’t wait to find out. Jack worried enough already, too fucking much. Screwing his eyes shut, he rolled onto his back, whimpered at the new pain, sharp this time. Biting down another sound, he forced his eyes to open.

There were windows in the ceiling.

And Jack, bent over with a look of worry in his face and the last light of day illuminating him from behind. Like they were in some kind of shitty-ass B movie, and Kent was the damsel in distress. Waiting for the prince’s kiss.

And _fuck_ , he did not want to deal with another concussion.

Jack disappeared from sight, was replaced by a bald middle aged man. A strong arm made its way behind his back, tried to pull him up. It took a couple of tries, but eventually Kent found himself standing, grimacing at a sting in his knee. He hadn’t noticed that before. Awesome.

”I need you to look at me,” the man said on the bench. “Think you can do that?”

Kent did, just so kept himself from recoiling at the sudden proximity. There was a yellow tint to the man’s eyes when they searched his. He moved a finger towards the bridge of his nose.

”Good job. Can you turn your head for me?”

Kent turned towards the ice. No game, not yet. Refs were talking. Jack wasn’t there.

“Good news is you don’t have a concussion. Or, of you do, it’s a very light one. I’d take it slow for a couple of days if I were you, though. That was one hell of a fall. Nothing’s broken, but your temple’s all scratched up. Ear, too. Can you hear this?”

He snapped his fingers. Kent recoiled.

“Awesome. Let’s just put a bandage on this, then. Or you can go shower first, get all that blood out of your hair. You might be a little light-headed, but - “

“I’m going back to the game.”

The man’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “No, you are very much not. Next week, perhaps. Not tonight. Or tomorrow.”

“You don’t understand - “

”I know it sucks, but you’re gonna have to watch from here. Or go get changed, enjoy the quiet.” Kent opened his mouth but was cut off. “What will it be?”

On the ice, a penalty was given. The players got into position. Glancing around, Kent finally found Jack, just as he stepped into the sin bin. There was a bruise forming on his chin.

Above them, the clock was counting eight more minutes. And thirteen seconds. For that period.

“ … I’mma go shower.”

The medic smiled. “Good choice. Come back here when you’re done.”

He didn’t. The blood flow stopped, wasn’t something that couldn’t be fixed by holding a t-shirt to it for a couple of minutes. He was gone before the other guys could get there, bumped a couple of fists on the bench before heading back to the hotel. A couple of streets, night air biting into his skin through the jacket. Almost enough to take away the dizziness.

Once in the hotel room, Kent plopped down on his bed, grimaced, turned his head to the uninjured side. Closed his eyes and breathed. Nothing a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix.

“Kenny?”

The door closed. Kent blinked.

“Kenny, are you okay? Do I need to call Dejardin, do you - _fuck_ , Kenny, your pillow - don’t move, I’ll get - “

“Fuck, Zimms, I’m fine!”

Jack froze, two feet from Kent, eyes wide. His chest was rising and falling, too rapid - 

“Zimms, calm down, I’m fine. It’s just a little blood.” Kent propped himself up on his elbows, glanced at the pillow. Okay, more than a little blood, but not nothing worth panicking over. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“Kenny, you’re bleeding, I need to get someone, I need to – I need to call someone - “

Kent pushed himself up the bed, placed his hands on Jack’s biceps. “Zimms, look at me. I’m up, I’m talking. I’m fine. Now breathe, or I’ll be the one calling someone when you pass out.”

Jack drew in a shaking breath, the beginnings of tears in his eyes. Without thinking, Kent put his arms around him, tucked him in until his forehead was resting on his shoulder. There were still a couple of inches between them, but Jack’s breaths were slowing, his fingers coming to curl in Kent’s shirt.

“It’s just a little blood, no one ever died from that.”

A sound left Jack, something too soft, and he let go of Kent’s shirt, moved his arms around him instead and drew him in until they were pressed flush. Kent swallowed down a hitch, hugged back as fiercely as Jack was hugging him.

And what Kent wouldn’t give to stay like that forever.

But as all good things, it came to an end. A small squeeze, Jack pulling back. Excruciatingly slow. Kent wasn’t a strong man.

“Brush your teeth, Zimms. Early day tomorrow.”

And Jack nodded, let go at last. Kent missed him immediately, wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull him back. Never let go.

He cleared his throat.

As Jack brushed his teeth in the bathroom, Kent changed his clothes, careful not to touch his head more than necessary. The bleeding had stopped again. Nothing to worry about.

They changed rooms without words, as usual, but when Kent returned, Jack wasn’t in bed.

“You okay?”

Jack startled, swiftly put the orange bottle in his hand back in the bag. As if Kent didn’t see.

“Can I do something?”

“No,” Jack whispered. “I – no.”

“You sure?”

A nod. There was more, but Kent didn’t push. They were both too tired. With a last pat to Jack’s shoulder, he moved to sit down on his own bed, grimaced at the blood on the pillow.

“You can sleep with me.”

Rushed, barely above a whisper. Broken on the last word.

“What?”

In the half-darkness, he couldn’t see Jack’s face, but he saw him nod towards the pillow. “It’ll be gross. You can sleep with me. If you want.”

And, oh, Kent wanted. But there had to be rules. Boundaries. Lines they didn’t cross, that _he_ didn’t cross. The no was on his tongue, some excuse that would brush it all off. But there had been something in his voice. Something just on the wrong side of desperate.

“You sure?”

Jack nodded. His hand had tightened in the comforter. “You need sleep.”

Logical. And not. “Alright. Scoot over. Kick me if I start snoring.”

“You don’t snore.”

So much for trying to play it off. Diffuse the air of intimacy Kent knew he was the only one feeling.

And perhaps Jack noticed it, too, because he did as ordered, scooted over and laid down, back to Kent. With a deep breath, Kent sat down on the edge of the bed, swung his legs over before he could find an excuse not to. Call it off.

It took some adjusting, the blanket being a little too short for them not to touch at all, but in the end they settled, backs pressed together, legs not quite tangled, Jack’s butt a firm presence against Kent’s. It wasn’t fucking fair, but it was one night. Kent could survive one night without going insane.

*

Consciousness came gradually. Heat, first. Something soft and gently suffocating on his face, something warm beneath his arm, pressing against the raging hard-on he was sporting.

Kent’s eyes snapped open, and he recoiled, nearly fell off the bed in his haste to put as much space between them as possible. There was an ache in his head, the insistent throb between his legs, the relief as Jack let out a soft snoring sound, hand no longer trapped by Kent’s neck slightly twitching. As if reaching out.

Pushing down the thought, Kent rose on shaking legs and walked to the bathroom. Came with his nails digging into his cheek, just off the beginning scabs next to his ear where the ice had torn him open. Only when his breathing returned to normal did he let go, washed the evidence off one hand, the blood from underneath the nails of the other. Brushed his teeth while he was there.

When he walked back out, nail marks faded, Jack was drawing a hoodie over his head. He turned, gave Kent a small smile, brief and unassuming.

They didn’t talk about it, just packed their bags, ate breakfast. Walked to the bus side by side as they always did, sat down next to each other. Kent offered an ear bud, and Jack took it.

_I never promised you a happy ending, you never said you wouldn’t make cry._

There had been a spot of blood on Jack’s pillow, dried and brown. The only proof of what had happened. Probably gone now.

Kent glanced to the left, took in the line of Jack’s jaw, his nose, those impossibly blue eyes staring out at the scenery flowing past. The hair he now knew how felt tickling his nose.

Kent closed his eyes. It would never happen again, he knew that. Good riddance.

 _But summer love will keep us warm long after our autumn goodbye_.

-/ \\-

December arrived with it a chill in the air Kent didn’t remember from the years before, games that left him sore, exhausted beyond belief, and emails he forwarded to Molyneux without opening. He’d done that once, taken one look at the figure at the bottom, and thought _nope_ , turned the computer off and pulled out his homework instead.

Some things could come later.

Almost as soon as the water turned off, the cold set in. That was one thing he definitely wouldn’t miss about the Q; cheap hotels and the horror that called itself weather in Québec. Jumping from one foot to the other to keep warm, he towelled off, pulled on as many layers of clothes that he could find in the bathroom – and Jesus, he needed to get better at remembering socks, it was fucking ridiculous and fucking _cold_ \- all while trying not to look at his reflection in the slowly unsteaming mirror above the sink. The flush was there, he knew, whether he liked it or not. His own fucking fault for jerking it to a teammate just one wall away. At least it was something he could blame on the hot water if Jack asked.

Everyone did.

Pulling on his hoodie – too large, perfect - Kent grinned. The roadies, he’d miss. The freedom, the team songs, the extra practices he and Jack would sometimes sneak in a nearby rink. The long, hot shower he could take afterwards to masturbate his fucking head off with the feel of the ice and the sound of Jack’s breath still clear in his mind. He’d gotten the silent whines down to a science, the bro nods to Jack curled up in his bed afterwards, hidden behind a book or some tape, or pushing an orange-lidded bottle down the bottom of his bag as soon as Kent came into view.

That part, he probably wouldn’t miss, either, now he thought about it.

This time, Kent stepped into an empty room. Not the worst thing you could find in a shabby hotel just outside of Shawinigan, but not what he wanted. He should probably go find Jack. Make sure he hadn’t dropped into a pile of snow somewhere. At some point. Now.

It wasn’t late, not enough to throw the rookies into their rooms yet. Unless they were making too much noise. Then again, Kent wasn’t sure they weren’t the only ones living there.

Probably were, given the siege of the lobby where he finally found Jack, curled up on a mint green couch with a blanket around his lower half. A couple of other guys were there, too, playing cards, looking at what Kent hoped wasn’t porn, following whatever was happening on the TV.

”’sup, Parser.”

”’sup, Channer. Whatcha playing?”

”President. Wanna join?”

Jack’s eyes were fastened on the screen. There was a pillow in his arms, nearly getting the life squeezed out of it.

”I’m good, I think.”

Channer shrugged. ”Suit yourself.”

Sauntering over, Kent drew a blanket over his own lap. ”What’re we watching?”

”Sports news.”

”Cool.”

As if Kent didn’t know. He could recognise that horrible purple suit in the fucking dark.

” - interesting match, but we all know where it’s headed. The Océanics have been on a roll recently, and I doubt the Cataractes are going to be the one to end it. Not with their current defence line, at least.”

”And the Océanic’s attack!”

Kent glanced over. Jack didn’t.

”The Parson-Zimmermann no-look one-timer, exactly. I don’t think we’ve seen a goalie that’s managed to keep that one out yet.”

“Do those guys ever get tired?” Kent asked.

No answer.

”Not without a well-placed D-man, no. But I don’t blame them, and I hope their teams don’t, either. Those boys are a force to be reckoned with, and I don’t think there’s much to do other than wait for them to be drafted.”

”Only eight more months! Top of your head, Leonard, what do you predict?”

Something in Kent tightened.

”I mean, they’re going first. I don’t think anyone’s really doubting that, and all of those gentlemen – and ladies, can’t forget those! - that say things can happen - I mean, unless one of them gets one hell of an injury, if you’ll forgive my French, they’re going first. Which one of them’s taking first pick, though … I don’t think we’ll find that out before the night of the draft.”

”It’s that tight.”

”It is indeed that tight. One hell of a thriller this year. Much worse for those poor boys, though, I imagine.”

”No doubt about it. Now, as we talked about earlier, there’s not all that much any other team can do against the Océanics before Parson and Zimmermann are drafted. But how do you think they’ll fare in the NHL?”

”It’s certainly something I’m looking forward to seeing. I mean, so far, we’ve mostly seen them work together on the ice. It’ll be good to see them apart, see what they’re able to do without each other. Not to talk bad about their teamwork, of course, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

”Yes, that synchronicity … I must admit I find myself hoping they’ll end up on the same team again, some day. That kind of play is not only good on the ice, it’s amazing to look at. But, I think we’ll see something interesting in the next couple of years, too. Parson, first and foremost, I’m curious about.”

Kent raised an eyebrow.

”Right. It’ll be interesting to see what his team’s going to do with him. Probably feed him up a little first, but after that.”

”Oh, for sure! Kid’s _not_ ready for any kind of NHL check the way he is now. Twenty more pounds, sure. But he’s got speed we haven’t seen in the league for a long, long time. How that’s going to work … well, I’m looking forward to it.”

”He certainly has a unique style of play when Zimmermann’s not there. Heck, when Zimmermann’s there, too, but that’s not what we’re talking about, no need to take my time, Barry! Parson’ll be fun to watch, but I think – I fear he’s going to take backstage to Zimmermann. More than he does now. I mean, Zimmermann comes with history, with his father’s name, and if he’s drafted first, as Bad Bob was, what, thirty-one years ago? If he is, he’ll have one hell of a career to follow, and that’s going to be more interesting to watch than just some New York upstart. Talented upstart, but still.”

”Five Stanley Cups in eighteen seasons, Hall of Fame, captain for twelve years … I mean, if anyone can do it, it’ll probably be Jack Zimmermann. From what we’ve seen from him so far. I certainly won’t be surprised if he ends up next to him in the Hall of Fame in a twenty years time.”

”Especially since their playing style’s so similar, too. Incredibly physical, tons of penalties, but still one of the top scorers.”

”Bad Jack Zimmermann!”

”Like father, like son,” Barry agreed. ”The Zimmermann dynasty.”

”Jesus, how long’re you guys gonna watch that?”

Kent tore his eyes away from the screen, forced his fingers to uncurl from the bundled up blanket in his lap. ”You can switch channels if you like.”

That got Jack’s attention. Finally. His mouth opened, protest ready to fall, but it was too late. The three men were replaced by an old cartoon, girls in short skirts and a talking cat. Kent almost smiled. He’d loved that one when he was little.

A tap on his thigh made him turn his head. To his right, Jack was still staring straight at the TV, blanket now almost up to his chest. Two fingers tapped on Kent’s thigh again. He couldn’t mean … 

Slowly, Kent unfurled his blanket, let the corner fall onto Jack’s hand and hid his beneath it. Sure enough, the fingers from his thigh moved to his palm, drew down in a way that made Kent gasp, only just hidden in a cough, and clasped their hands together. A sweaty grip, just on the wrong side of tight, but Kent figured he was no different.

Fuck those guys, he thought, gave Jack’s hand a squeeze. They didn’t know shit.

A few feet away, Marco let out a booming laugh.

Jack squeezed back.

That night, he hesitated for just a moment too long after brushing his teeth, long enough for Kent to push his comforter a little aside. It wasn’t an invitation, or maybe it was, because Jack sat down on, and Kent let him. Of course he did.

In the morning, when Jack gently pushed Kent’s arm off his chest, he gave him a small smile. And Kent stayed in the bed a little longer, ran a hand over the warm spot where Jack had just been. Forced himself up as well. The Titans weren’t beating themselves. Close, but not quite.

*

The journalist grabbed them just off the game, skates still on the ice, cheeks red with cold and exhilaration, all but barred their leave. Not that Kent minded too much, not after the game they’d just had. The one-timers that were finally becoming regular.

”Good game tonight, boys!” he smiled, eyes inviting, accent thick. ”Three points for each, your coach must be very ‘appy.”

”Probablement,” Jack replied, breath just off the top of his lungs in a way that softened the words even more than usual. Way more than usual for a journo.

Relief flashed across the man’s face, just for a second, but long enough. When he spoke again, it was in French, directed at Jack who replied back with equal swiftness. As if he didn’t even notice the change. But some part of him did, the part that made his shoulders ease, his weight shift, something behind his eyes soften. He didn’t relax, Jack never relaxed, but it was close.

Next to him, close enough for warmth to seep through their uniforms between them, Kent’s shoulders eased, too. There was no part of him in the conversation, but it didn’t bother him, not in the fucking slightest. Not with the way Jack’s eyes had lit up, the way his hands jolted ever so slightly when he wanted to speak with them but caught himself. The way words left his mouth like the trickling of a brook. _Un ruisseau d’une montagne_.

He always spoke French more softly than English, no harsh sounds, no consonants sticking to his throat and stumbling on his tongue. Soft and fluent, like his movements as soon as he left ground for ice. American soil, Canadian ice. If anyone ever asked Kent to describe Jack, those were the words he’d use. American soil, Canadian water. Warm hands and blue eyes and the soft whispers of something he’d never have but ached for more than he’d ever ached for anything in his life.

There were aches in hockey, constants when you played every day, just another thing you got used to. Skate through the pain, skate until you can’t breathe and can’t feel your legs and don’t know where you end, and your stick begins. Where you end, and your teammates begin.

Somewhere, logically, a border had to be between Kent’s love for hockey, the love he’d felt since he was six years old, and the love he felt for Jack. But as he stood at the edge of the ice with a stick in his hands and the cold of the rink slowly seeping in between endless layers of gear, mixing with Jack’s warmth and his words falling like a caress, a miracle, sunlight on a winter day, that border was nowhere to be seen. And Kent felt nothing like an explorer.

That morning, Jack had woken up in his arms, had smiled at him, and it had been enough. Only a man of endless greed, a Midas, would want more. Kent was gold, and Jack was silver, pure and precious in their own right. Together, they made the Rimouski Océanic a treasure trove. They shone. Together, side by side, that would be enough.

Had to be.

If it was the sudden quiet or the eyes focusing on him that pulled Kent from his thoughts, he didn’t know. The water stopped, reality returned, and Kent found himself going from a smile that should never have seen the light of day, that could give him away swifter than the fear spreading through his veins and threatening to choke him, to a smirk that hopefully hid it all.

”Ouais.”

Short and cheeky, asshole white boy charm, horrible accent - even worse than the one he actually had. An answer to a question that might not have been a question.

And enough. The journalist laughed, Jack cracked a smile, the tension probably only felt by Kent diffused. A glance around proved one camera, not quite aimed their way, not quite turned away, either. With a little luck, it wouldn’t have caught anything. Anything too suspicious, at least. And if it had, he was exhausted, and they’d won the game, and they’d done three one-timers, and they were fucking invincible.

Something graced against his elbow, Jack’s, soft and purposeful. Nervous. Reassuring. Kent pushed back.

They were fucking invincible.

-/ \\-

Winter break began with the end of the accounting class he was taking, a wink to the girl in the front row with the red hair and a quick, returned smile from the cute Asian guy in the form-fitting sweaters who always sat exactly two desks from Kent. They hadn’t spoken, but Kent was fairly sure his name was Ethan and that he might say yes if Kent ever asked him out.

Which he wouldn’t.

Perhaps he’d talk to him one day, though. On a day Mr. Morrison didn’t arrive early. And he had day dreams that didn’t involve kissing Jack, that turned far too vivid as Bad Bob opened the door later that night, red in the face as Jack often was when cold or flustered and with a smile on his face that Kent had never seen on Jack but could easily imagine. Bright but subdued, beneath crow’s feet and grey hair that matched Kent’s. A dog somewhere. Or a cat. Maybe even a kid.

”Just in time,” Bad Bob smiled, tore Kent from the picture he immediately stored somewhere he’d never look again. Lock and load, shoot to kill.

”New apron, Mr. Z?” he asked, smirk back, jacket off. Safety on.

Bad Bob looked down, gave a lopsided grin. ”It was a gift for Alicia, from the director of a movie she did a few years back. So I wear it now. The colour’s nice.”

Bright pink. ’I serve pussy’.

Kent nodded in a way he hoped was understanding.

”Well, don’t just stand in there,” Bob said, smile back in full force. ”Food’s almost ready. And Jack – oh, there he is.”

There he was indeed, half-stumbling down the stairs with small, easily overlooked lights in his eyes and a soft blue button-up that did nothing to hide the extra pounds of muscle he’d put on in the last year. Kent cleared his throat, hid it as a cough. Failed miserably.

”Kenny,” Jack breathed, and Kent was ready to die right there and then. Pretty much did when the arms he’d been eyeing came around him, pulled him in for a quick hug. No slaps to the back, a soft scent of cologne instead, something nice and expensive that Kent made a mental note to buy more of for him when they made it to the NHL. And then something for himself, to keep him close in the time they played apart.

Neither took a step back, not until Bob tried to sneak off to the kitchen, only succeeding in reminding them of his presence.

”We should set the table?” Kent suggested.

”If you want to,” Bob replied before disappearing, swearing a second later.

”Or help your dad.”

Jack nodded. They still didn’t move. For a moment – a long moment, a thrilling, breathtaking, _horrible_ moment - Kent thought he saw Jack lean in.

”So, whaddaya think of the Las Vegas Aces? They suck or what?”

Too shrill, too quick, but the moment broke. The ice. Soaked Kent to the bone and left him delightfully numb.

”Their defence is just horrible. I mean, it doesn’t even look like they have any strategies,” Jack continued, prodded at the food on his plate again. Didn’t bring any to his mouth.

”Also, hockey in Vegas.” Kent huffed. ”There’s no fucking audience there – I mean, start a team in the Midwest or something – or another one in Canada, they could use it – there’s no fucking use for a hockey team in the middle of a fucking desert!”

”Hubris,” Bad Bob agreed. ”But careful you don’t do that, too.”

”Whaddaya mean?”

”I’m just saying, they’re bad - ”

”On sais, Papa.”

” - and you’re good. One of you will most likely end up there.”

Jack’s fork scraped against his plate. Stayed there.

”There’s still six months,” Kent said. ”Lotsa things can happen.”

”That’s true,” Bad Bob said after a moment. ”Speaking of, you have to be more careful on the ice, Kent. Don’t take another hit like the one in November. It’ll sent you out for good some day.”

Despite the look on Jack’s face, the side of Kent’s mouth quirked up. ”I’ll try not to. But, if it all goes to shit, I can always become an accountant.”

Laughter rung across the table, save for one corner.

”Right, you’re taking a class about that, aren’t you?” Bad Bob smiled. ”It’s always good to have a plan B. Still, I doubt you’ll need it. Either of you. There’s about as much chance of that as of the Aces winning the Cup anytime soon.”

More laughter. On the other side of the table, Jack was gripping his fork again, still quiet.

”Are you making a new movie soon?” Kent asked Alicia who huffed.

”Not until I get to direct it, I’m not.”

”Why not?”

And off she was, moving her arms around in a way that reminded Kent so much of Jack talking about history it fucking _hurt_. At her side, Bob was smiling, eyes firmly fastened on his wife and a look so utterly adoring in them that Kent felt it in his fucking soul.

On the other side of the table, Jack stuck at his food. Took a sip of water. Breathed.

And Kent smiled. Pretended the world didn’t exist.

*

The articles were becoming more frequent. ’Articles’. As if the people writing them were proper journalists and not desperate motherfuckers willing to throw everyone else under the bus for a story. A chance at success.

 _Zimmermann and Parson – the new generation of hockey_.

Sounded innocuous. They always did. At first, when he first started seeing his names in headlines, Kent had felt something that wasn’t quite pride, not yet, something that was still mostly nerves tug at his guts and at the corners of his mouth.

It hadn’t taken long for the feeling to turn sour and rotten in his mouth.

_Times are changing; the world is not the same as it was in the great eighties, and neither is hockey. New talents take the spots of old, new rivalries blossom and new rules take form – both on and off the ice. Already, the picture of what a true hockey player looks like is beginning to change, and by the time Jack Zimmermann steps off the ice for the last time, the world he leaves behind will be all but unrecognisable from the one his father once dominated. Change happens one small step at a time; a new move, a record broken, words never previously spoken said aloud. Someone taking a chance where no one has before._

And the picture. That _fucking_ picture.

 _Ouais_.

 _Ouais, I want that guy’s cock down my fucking throat, exactly as you think. And_ change the fucking world of hockey by doing it.

The man sitting next to him in the internet café glanced over, but the computer was fine, and Kent was already out the door, hands curled up, not shaking. Never shaking, not where others could see. Not in a fucking airport.

It would be fucking hilarious, wouldn’t it? The two top draft prospects, Zimmermann and Parson, the greatest talents of their generation, actually fucking. The too soft-spoken, too sensitive, too awkward son of gregarious Bad Bob Zimmermann and his gorgeous actress wife and the too short, too skinny New York upstart who were in too much sync on the ice. Too fucking _close_.

Those fuckers didn’t know them. They didn’t know shit. Didn’t know Jack, Bad Bob’s son who’d learned to skate before he learned to walk, who’d always had a connection with the ice but never been able to reach the levels his father had at the same age. Close, always fucking close, but never quite there. Not until Kent showed up, at least. Bad Bob had to be disappointed. And what would make it even worse for him? The legend, the star, one of the greatest men hockey had ever seen, what would fuck up his image better than a fag for a son?

As if Bob could ever be disappointed with Jack. Somehow, the fuckers who thought they knew them both had gotten that wrong, too. The terrifying man who dropped gloves faster than anyone, who barely even flinched at checks that could send other men to the hospital, how could he be a good father?

Not that Kent knew much of what a good father was. Or a mother, now he was at it.

”Sick,” Ben said with an apologetic smile even he knew wasn’t enough.

Bitch, Kent didn’t say, because it wasn’t fucking worth it. Instead, he nodded, adjusted his backpack, got into the car. Watched as Washington disappeared from sight in a slight haze of snow that coated the side windows, the side mirrors, the entire world outside.

In the driver’s seat, Ben was frowning, every other moment catching himself and turning it upside down. ”Was your flight okay?”

”It was fine.”

”No issue in security?”

”None.”

”Forgot anything we need to get?”

”Nope.”

With a nod, more to himself than Kent, Ben turned his attention back to the road.

And Kent closed his eyes. Didn’t open them until they pulled into the driveway. Didn’t much want to then, either. But he had to, and so he did.

She was standing by the living room window in what looked like her pyjamas, her hair a mess and longer than he remembered it. In her arms was Miles, also in pyjamas, pointing out at the snow.

Young. That’s what she looked like, standing like that, smiling like that. The same way she was on a picture he’d seen once, taken on her seventeenth birthday. He was there, too, a small bundle of cells slowly carving out a space for himself inside of her.

”Feeling better?” Ben asked once inside, and the moment was broken. Or just beginning, as Sarah Parson-Miller turned to her husband, smile widening, son letting out a yelp of pure delight.

”Much better. Probably shouldn’t kiss me, though.”

And yet he did, after another smile and a handing over of her youngest son. Their son.

Her eyes glinted. Kent wanted to take another step back, but didn’t get to before she turned her eyes on him, put her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a hug. She smelled of sweat and ginger tea.

”Missed ya, kid.”

”Missed ya, too, Ma.”

They gave each other one last squeeze, pretended that one lie cancelled out another.

”You’re probably tired. Missed your own bed, I bet.”

He wasn’t. And he hadn’t. Still, he went up, sat on the edge of the bed that didn’t feel like his. Stared at a waste basket in the corner that had kept far more of Kent secrets than she ever had. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d told her one.

Downstairs, Miles let out another shriek in delight, followed by his father’s booming laughter. Just beneath it, Kent could’ve sworn he heard his mother laugh, light and carefree. No one would throw him out, he knew, if he came down. Ben would probably invite him in, put on a game or something.

With a huff, Kent pulled out a book from his backpack, spent the next four hours in the Italian summer. Relived a decade he’d never experienced and a love that flowed from the pages like blood from a wound that refused to close up. Kent knew the feeling of bleeding out.

Dec 25th 11.01 AM. From ’Jack’

_merr ychristmas kenny_

Dec 25th 11.03 AM. To ’Jack’

_merry hcristmas zimms :)_

”What is it with you and that phone recently?”

Kent looked up, turned his phone off and the screen down on the kitchen counter. ”I do have friends, Ma.”

”Teammates?”

”Yup.” Not even a lie. For once.

She nodded, took another sip of cocoa. ”You’re doing pretty well up there.”

Goal after goal, victory after victory. Best in his fucking generation.

”Not too shabby.”

”Is it fun?”

Late nights and early mornings, team bus sing-alongs and video games and parties.

”It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Apart from the NHL.”

”So you’re happy?”

And Jack’s hand in his beneath a blanket, Jack’s back pressed against his chest. _Jack_.

”Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

”Good. That’s good, Ken.” Another smile, another sip of cocoa. ”You make sure to make time for those friends, too? Not just texting?”

Jack. Channer. President. ”Of course.”

”What about girls?”

Kent’s mug stopped an inch or so from his lips. That again. Always fucking that. Glancing down at the mug in his hands, he wondered what she’d do if he just dumped it down himself. Accidentally, of course. Probably continue the third-degree interrogation.

”There’s none, Ma. I play hockey twice a day, I don’t have the fucking time for a girlfriend. You know that.”

Her lips drew thin, hidden behind her own mug. She didn’t swallow. ”I know hockey’s important, but it’s important to live, too. Enjoy your youth and all that stuff.”

”Shit,” Kent muttered into his cocoa.

”Sorry?”

”Nothing, Ma.”

”No, what didja say?”

”It doesn’t matter.”

She sighed, put her mug down. ”Come on, Kent. Don’t be like that.”

”Like what?”

”Like … I don’t know, such a teenager!”

”Not sure you’ve noticed, but I am a fucking teenager.”

”Oh, I noticed, don’tcha worry ’bout that. I’m just saying … ” She let out a noise of frustration. ”I’m your Ma. You can talk to me.”

Sure, he could. Sure, she would just _love_ that. ”We’re talking right now.”

”I mean about important stuff.”

Kent nodded. ”I think we’ll make the Memorial Cup run this year. We’ve been doing really - ”

”I don’t mean, hockey, Kent.”

”Then what didja mean? Girls? Is that all you want me to talk to you about? Tell ya all about the pussies I’ve been fucking?”

Anger flared across her face, gone as soon as it had emerged. ”If that’s how you wanna do it, sure. Talk to me.”

”There’s nothing to talk about.”

”Jesus Christ, Kent!”

The sound of the mug hitting the counter echoed through the room, settled in Kent’s chest just beneath the anger threatening to spill from his throat.

”You’re all alone up there,” Sarah Parson-Miller continued, lowering her voice ever so slightly. Right. Husband and kid around somewhere. Couldn’t lose the fucking mask where they could hear her. ”I know you’re independent, you can look after yourself, but you don’t have to handle everything on your own. I’m your Ma – I still needed my Ma when I was eighteen!”

”I don’t have a fucking kid to drag around. You did.”

”And that was _my_ mistake - God knows it was difficult, but my Ma stayed by my side. I’d never have been able to do that on my own.”

 _Mistake_. A broken mug on the floor, a fist to Kent’s _fucking_ face.

”You can’t say that. You can’t - ” he cut himself off. Swallowed. Looked away from his mother’s widening eyes. ”You don’t get to say shit like that!”

Even to his own ears, it sounded childish.

”I didn’t mean - ”

”I don’t fucking care whatcha meant, y’can’t just - you were the one that got fucked fat, you can’t blame that on – I never fucking wished to be born!”

Hints of tears flashed behind Sarah’s eyes, threatened to spill. As if she had the fucking right. ”I’m not – Kent, I love you. From day one, I always - ”

”You have one funny fucking way of showing it.”

”And you don’t? Jesus, Kent, you barely even call me, how am I supposed to - ”

”Oh, so now it’s my fault? Whaddaya want me to do, quit hockey and stay here with you and your perfect little cookie cutter family? Give up all my dreams – give up everything I’ve worked for?”

”Of course not! I’m just saying, you – ” she sucked in a breath, placed a hand on her belly, and something inside Kent went cold. “I’m your Ma, I - ”

”I know you’re my fucking Ma, y’keep fucking saying it! But I have my own life now, what about that aren’t ya getting? I’m eighteen, you don’t need to know about every little fucking thing I do!”

”I don’t wanna control you, Kent!”

”Then what the fuck do ya want?”

”I just wanna be a part of your life! I want you to talk to me – you never used to keep stuff from me – you’ve changed, Kent!”

Stuff. _Stuff_.

”Of course I’ve fucking changed, Ma! I’ve been on my own for two fucking years, I’ve _grown up_! If y’want a little baby boy you can coddle you’ve got Miles! Fuck, pop some more out if you feel like it! But I’m not your little baby anymore, and you need to fucking realise that!”

”Oh, I realise just fine - ”

”Then how about acting on it, instead of – instead of being so fucking clingy? Fuck, didja do this with Dad, too, is that why he finally left? Couldn’t fucking stand you being all over him?”

Another fist, this time to Sarah’s face. Fucking bitch deserved it. She was a fucking mother, she was _his_ fucking mother, even if - 

”I think you should go to your room.”

Endlessly calm, seconds from breaking the mug on the floor. Shattering it into pieces and dust and dried-up remnants of cocoa.

”What, you’re grounding me?”

”I’m not. You’re an adult, you make your own decisions. You could leave here entirely if that’s whatcha want. Go back to Canada.”

”Maybe I will.”

Except he wouldn’t, not with the return ticket for another four days and not a second earlier, and she had to know that, too. The _bitch_.

He made sure to slam the door to his room. The _guest room_.

-/ \\-

The dress was red and skintight, soft under Kent’s fingers as the hair tickling his jaw. Smoke and sweat and perfume mixed together in the air, more intoxicating than the alcohol swirling through his veins, a second later more sobering than an entire ocean.

A glance to the left revealed Jack on one of the couches, drinking from a bottle with an orange on the label but something clear and poisonous-looking inside. Even through the dim lights of the living room, the blue of his eyes was unmistakable, pierced right through Kent’s chest as were they mere inches apart.

In his arms, the girl in the red dress was grinding against him. On the couch, Jack licked his lips. Kent’s breath hitched. The girl giggled, and the sound hit his ears as if through water. Through an arctic ocean.

Jack’s eyes were wide, completely clear despite the empty bottle on the floor and the hours that had ticked by since they let their fingers fall away from the not-quite-grasp they’d held on each other on the walk to the house.

And Kent looked back, felt more than ever like a moth drawn to a flame. Like fucking gasoline. In his arms, the girl turned and threw her arms around his neck, drew their mouths together. Kent followed on instinct, eyes never leaving Jack.

Only a couple of mouthfuls remained in the bottle in his hands. Soon, they’d be gone, too, and Kent wanted nothing more than to get the two of them out of there and lick the drops off Jack’s lips.

The girl moaned, dug her fingers deeper into the soft skin just beneath the collar of his flannel. She had smoked, at some point. Eaten something peppermint-y.

Jack had never tasted like peppermint.

Another swig went down. The girl moved her hand down Kent’s chest. Before it could reach his belt, he twined their fingers together, bit her lip. She sighed into his mouth.

Jack’s tongue was on the mouth of the bottle, licked the rim, and a small shiver ran down Kent’s spine, urged the girl in his arms to giggle again. As he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, Jack brought the bottle to his lips again, thin but flush, tipped his head back, displayed the Adam’s apple Kent had dreamt of licking more times than he wanted to admit.

The bottle hit the floor. Kent’s pants were painfully tight. A feeling like millions of ants running beneath his skin was making him numb, like his legs could give out at any moment, right until Jack’s eyes once more met his.

The girl made a small noise of complaint when Kent pulled back, but a quick peck quieted her down, allowed Kent to finally slip out of the suffocating heat of her embrace.

His breath was in his throat as he walked towards the couch, felt Jack’s eyes on him all the while.

”Heya.”

”Hi.”

Their words were inaudible in the music blaring through the air, but it was all good. They didn’t need things like words, the two of them. Anyone who’d seen them play together for more than a couple of minutes could tell that. They understood each other, on high alert on the ice or drunk off their asses two hours into 2009.

There was plenty of space between them, not as much as there should be and too fucking much at the same time. It was easy for one knee to bump into the other and stay there. A game of chicken, if anyone asked. Who would pull away first, and the answer was neither.

Had Kent been a little braver, he would’ve placed his arm on the back of the couch, just far enough to be able to play it off but close enough for his fingers to brush the soft hairs on Jack’s neck. Had Jack been stupid, he would’ve nuzzled into it. Had Kent been stupid, too, he would’ve used the moment to lean in and kiss him.

They weren’t stupid. Still, Kent sometimes wished they were. Just for a little bit. Just for a second.

Had everything been different, been like Kent had wished for and dreamt about for too fucking long, he wouldn’t be sitting on the couch playing chicken. He’d be in Jack’s lap, with his hands in his hair and Jack’s on his hips, kissing him firmly and thoroughly on the mouth, like the couple on the couch only a few feet from them. And no one would’ve said shit.

But that wasn’t the world they lived in, and so he stayed on the couch with the warmth of Jack’s knee seeping through his jeans and his hand gently playing with a couple loose strands of hair.

-/ \\-

His Ma would’ve laughed her ass off, Kent thought with a burn in his throat as he sat in the team bus en route to New Brunswick on a freezing evening in late January. Snow was falling in chunks outside, soft and deadly.

Wildcats. A fucking riot of a name, she would’ve called it. Or something like that. And they’d laugh, the two of them, the way they used to do when he was younger but hadn’t in … he didn’t know how long. Before Rimouski. She would’ve made him promise to kick their asses, at least refuse to call any of them anything other than Troy, and he’d tell her their A was called that. Troy. He could call him Bolton instead.

He didn’t call his Ma. Didn’t open the picture she sent. Didn’t need to to know what was in it. Who.

Next to him, Jack slumped down further from his upright sleeping position as the bus hit another hole in the road. His head still hadn’t reached Kent’s shoulder, but it was only a question of time. And he wouldn’t push him off. Never did. Not until someone else on the team sent them one confused look too many.

With a soft sound, Jack blinked himself awake, glanced at Kent through squinted eyes, at the guys pretending not to look at them. Mumbling a soft désolé, he moved to lean against the window, and Kent tried not to shiver. He closed his eyes, too, listened to Jack’s breathing deepening, turning into snores too soft for anyone else to hear.

Sometimes, he wondered if anyone else knew how they sounded. How Jack’s chest felt when it rose and fell beneath a hand or against a back. How he rubbed his eyes whenever he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Or if that was another secret between them. Another thing they never spoke of.

The bus came to a halt close to midnight, delayed by the snow stifling the sounds of their footsteps, whatever words might try to make it past ski masks and tightly wrapped scarves as they trotted inside. Unwrapped as they made it inside the lobby, rubbed at their arms and sat down on suitcases as the coaching staff tried to convince the exhausted receptionist to hand over the keys just a little faster, paperwork be damned.

To his right, Jack had pulled down his scarf, wiped absent-mindedly at his slightly running nose. Pink like his cheeks, burning in the sudden change of temperature. He sniffed. Perhaps he was getting a cold. If he was, Kent would catch it, too, had once or twice already.

They stumbled into their room together, Kent collapsing on the bed furthest from the window, Jack pulling out the floral toilet bag Kent knew he didn’t start bringing before they stopped being assigned rooms to anyone but each other. A gift from his Maman. Pretty fucking useful. Pretty fucking gay.

There were pills in it, he knew. They didn’t talk about that.

“Brush your teeth,” Jack said, and Kent groaned, pushed himself off the bed and followed Jack into the bathroom. That was new, too. Another thing they didn’t talk about.

In the corner of Kent’s eye, Jack pulled off his shirt, pants, too. Hairiest calves on the team. Not the hairiest chest, but close. Made Kent feel like a fucking kid. Or just a fucking fag. He glanced away, hid behind an oversized Océanic t-shirt that might be Jack’s if he thought about it. Which he didn’t.

Back in the hotel room, he turned out the lights, crawled in beside Jack in the narrow bed, pulled the covers up above them both. Shivered until Jack shuffled closer to him and threw an arm over his chest. His nose – or lips, but it wasn’t – brushed against the back of Kent’s neck, sent another shiver through his body.

Some nights, he wondered if Jack did it on purpose. If it meant something, what they were doing. Those were the nights he screwed his eyes shut, matched his breathing to Jack’s, fell asleep warmer than he’d ever been. It wasn’t worth it, questioning good things. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, don’t stomp on the shin sheet of ice covering a puddle the morning after night frost.

And some nights, he would wake up breathing hard, fight hard to keep it quiet while willing the aching hardness between his legs to go away. Will himself not to try and slip out of bed, or just do what every instinct in his body screamed at him to do, take himself in hand with Jack’s breaths on his neck, or move against him until the friction tipped him over the edge. It wouldn’t take much, he knew that, a couple of thrusts at most. But he didn’t give in. Not once. Instead, he forced himself to breathe, to think of anything other than the warm body against his. Pray that Jack wouldn’t wake up. Or, if he did, that it would be just another thing they never talked about.

Those nights, he wanted to forget. Pretend they never happened at all.

And in the mornings, he did. Threw the soaked and crusty boxers in the bottom of his bag, showered with the water turned warm or cold enough to burn. Because burn he would, disgusting as he was. Burn, he would.

In the mornings, he brushed his teeth, ate breakfast with the team, chirped whoever fucked up, went over the strategies for the upcoming game. Prepared to burn in the best way possible.

*

The puck left Kent’s stick in a split-second, there one moment, gone the next, almost as much of a shock to Kent as the Rempart in his face. Almost.

Just off the goal, the perfect position, the fraction of a second before a Rempart could get in the way, Jack’s stick came down, hit the puck head on. Exactly as calculated, exactly as it always did. Off his stick, through the air as time stood still, pulling the net back with the sheer force of it.

Above them, a horn blared, and they met in the middle.

“Two more minutes,” Kent whispered.

“Deux minutes de plus,” Jack whispered back, and was gone. Kent tried not to miss the heat, the ghost of breath on his face. They’d have tonight.

At the face-off circle, Kent shot the puck to the side, left for the other. Channer shot straight off the pass, left Macs to run towards the goal. Avoiding a Rempart, Kent set after, just close enough to receive should he need to. Closer to the middle, Jack was going the same.

2-1 wasn’t safe. It was good, but it wasn’t safe.

A whistle blew, a squabble Kent didn’t see. No penalties. No power play.

The puck dropped on the right side of centre ice, stayed for several seconds as Jack’s stick hit the Rempart’s, hit anything but the puck itself.

Until there was nothing more to hit, and a Rempart was running off, stopping just far enough away to raise his stick, as far back as it would go, to _shoot_.

Kent was running before it hit, ran as it soared far above the ice, as it hit the chest of a Rempart closer to the Océanic defence. Around him, Channer and Macs were moving in, sticks held out. Judging by the set in the eyes of another Rempart, a fight was on the rise. A powerplay, if they played their cards right.

Good thing Kent’s teammates weren’t fucking idiots.

The hit was nowhere near brutal, was barely a hit at all. Would’ve been more if Macs hadn’t pushed the puck away, allowed Kent to snatch it up in a turn and pass off to Moully. No one closer. And the kid was beginning to grow a backbone. A soft one, but there.

And smart enough to pass to Jack as soon as possible, take the Rempart’s hit with a set jaw and just as much force pushed back. Neither fell, no whistles.

If there hadn’t been less than a minute left of the game, Kent might have spared some thought to the inactivity of the refs that night.

If there hadn’t been less than a minute left of the game, he might have cared.

A Rempart hit Jack close to the boards, pressed him against the glass in a way Kent knew hurt, but it didn’t matter. Not that late in the game. When everything hurt, nothing did.

The sound of their sticks echoed throughout the rink, sent ripples through the crowd. Jack didn’t even flinch, kept his eyes forward, didn’t spare the guy a fucking glance, and Kent loved him for it. Loved him for a lot of things, but this was one of them.

Above them, the clock was ticking down, and Jack was drawing out time.

Finally, the puck came free, sailed a couple of inches from a loose hit before a Rempart stepped forward, followed by Macs. Another battle, moving still, joined by Jack and his bulldozer a couple seconds later. Between the pipes, just in case, always in case, the goalie had bent down. Clever guy.

With a glance at the clock, Kent hurried forward, came to a halt well off the fight, well off the goal. Wouldn’t be the first he made in the last couple of seconds of a game, off a fight no one invited him to. Wouldn’t be the last.

But not this time.

The horn blared, tore through the crowd like gasoline, a blanket to the fight on the ice.

“Good game,” Kent said, slapped Channer on the back. Macs on the shoulder. Nodded at Jack, who smiled back. His lip had split, probably from being run into the glass, but it didn’t seem like he’d noticed yet. Kent wasn’t going to tell him. Couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from it, red and swollen. Wondered what it would feel like between his teeth, if Jack would moan or protest, if the protests would make way for pleasure once Kent touched him.

How his dick would look with the blood of Jack’s lip all over it. Around it.

Something to get back to when he was alone.

Elbowing Jack, Kent nodded at a man in the crowd. “I think we’re about to be ambushed.”

Pale blue eyes scanned the crowd, looked for an exit that wasn’t there. Kent gave him another elbow, softer this time. A promise. When they ended up in front of the journalist, the camera, they were both smiling. Or doing something that looked close enough.

“Hey, boys, good game,” the man smiled – balding, young. Bespectacled. “It’s great to have you here in Québec City”

Kent smirked, supported his weight on his stick. “It’s great to be here.”

The journalist smiled. His eyes looked hungry. ”With the draft is coming up, you might not play here again for some time. How do you feel about that? And what are your expectations for June?”

Same fucking questions. Like they hadn’t answered that shit a million times already.

”We’ve still got the playoffs to get through - ” Kent smiled back, shifted his weight from one skate to the other. “ - and I bet they’re gonna be tough. But, you know, we’ll just play our very best, and I’m sure everything will work out.”

”Yes,” Jack tried. ”We’ll play our best.”

Whatever happened on the journalist’s face, it wasn’t a smile, and Kent didn’t like it.

”Now, as it looks now, first pick will be one of the two of you - ”

”There are so many talented guys playing who all work just as hard as me and Zimms,” Kent interrupted, ignored the flicker of distaste on the journalist’s face. ”And there are months before the draft, lotsa things can happen. All we can do is play our best, like Zimms said.”

The journalist smiled. ”Of course. But if you look at this year’s points, the two of you are leagues ahead of third place but pretty much tied with each other. Doesn’t that ever put a strain on your friendship? Or your teamwork on the ice?”

Fuckhead. Motherfucking cocksucking _fuckhead_.

”Our friendship has very little to do with our playing. We’ve both worked hard to get where we are, and neither of us wanna give any of that up. And the way I look at it, we’re doing better when we work together than if we didn’t, both as captains and as teammates. There’s no place for rivalries on a team and especially not between co-captains, so to answer your question, we can’t let the draft come between us. Whatever happens in June’ll happen. In the meantime, we’ll just play.”

Kent gave a thin smile, pushed a sweat-soaked lock of hair behind his ear from where it had stuck to his forehead. The journalist’s eyes followed his movement.

”Of course. Now, I’ve probably held you long enough. Go shower, I can smell you from here.”

He grinned, and Kent grinned back. Even Jack managed a flicker of something.

”Motherfucker,” Kent muttered on their way to the dressing room. Next to him, Jack nodded, paler than he had been when the game ended. Kent made a mental note to get him a snack before they went to bed.

*

“Fuck, have you read this?”

“Read what?”

Channer threw a paper down on the table, sat himself on the chair opposite Kent’s. “Fuckers really think the rest of us aren’t worth shit.”

 _NHL draft predictions_. Kent should’ve known. At his side, elbow bumping into his every other moment, Jack was eating his chicken tenders as methodically as he’d shot drills earlier that evening. They still needed to shower.

“What’re they saying this time?”

“The usual,” Channer said, stuck a fry in his mouth. “Lotsa shit about Wynne, Douglas, those fuckers. Some Russians. And then, look at this – half a fucking page about the two of you’s rivalry.”

“We’re not rivals,” Jack said.

Kent snatched one of his fries. “Apparently we are. Why’d ya keep that from me?”

“I didn’t - “

With a grin, Kent stole another one of his fries. Turned back to Channer. “They just need to sell papers. You know how it is, if they can’t find a story, they make one.”

“I don’t know how that is,” Channer grumbled. “No one fucking writes about me.”

“Gotta do better, then. Or shag it up with some famous guy’s son.” At Channer’s look, he raised an eyebrow. “Supposedly.”

“You’d think they had better things to write about,” Channer muttered, turned the page. “Like the playoffs or something.”

“You’d think that, yeah. But, I mean, we all know the Sharks’re winning this season, they’re dominating the league more than we are. There’s no news in that.”

“I don’t know, I think the Bruins have a shot this year. Or the Schooners.”

“The Bruins? You’re kidding me, those fuckers’re flying by he seat of their fucking pants. It’s a fucking miracle they’ve made it this far.”

“I think Channer’s right,” Jack said, voice soft around a mouthful of fries. There were only a couple left.

Kent patted his arm. “Good for you. Want my chicken tenders?”

Jack glipped. “Sure.”

“You’re really too much sometimes,” Channer said around a couple of fries.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Just - “ Channer waved his hand. “I don’t know. Makes me miss Lily.”

“Your ex? The – and I quote – walking STD?”

A fry hit him in the face, and Kent stuffed it in his mouth, chewed loudly.

“I never said that.”

“You definitely did. Lily Huang, tits like fucking balloons, a walking STD. Not worth the jizz. Way out of your league, if you ask me.”

“Like you’d have a chance.”

“Asshole white boy charm, remember?” Kent grinned. “What makes ya think I haven’t done ‘er already?”

Channer frowned. Anger or confusion. “Have you?”

Kent shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?”

To his right, Jack’s lip quirked up. Kent hit a smile behind a fry. “You betcha.”

-/ \\-

Playoffs hit lighter than the years before, lighter than Kent had ever experienced them. Perhaps he was getting used to the stress.

”Man the goal! Man the fucking goal for fuck’s – crisse de câlice, ostie de _colon_!”

Unlike someone.

”You’ll get it next time,” Kent told the rookie as they passed each other on the way back from the goal. Good luck, he thought as Jack skated up, already mid-rant in too rapid French for Kent to want to listen in. Too fucking bad Dejardin had given him that A.

”Euh,” the poor boy replied. ”Désolé.”

”Désolé? T’es désolé?? Qu’est-ce que - ”

”I think we’re done for today,” Kent cut in, one hand on Jack’s shoulder. Soothing or holding back, he still hadn’t decided, but he was ready for both. To try, at least. ”Practice’s about over anyway.”

Pale blue eyes met his, lightning in a clear sky. Lightning or fear. Or ice.

He didn’t fucking scare Kent.

”Next time, you listen to what I say, compris? Teamwork means listening to each other or getting the _fuck_ off the ice.”

The kid nodded, sent a grateful look Kent’s way before getting the hell out of there. Smart kid.

”Wanna tell me what that was about, Zimms?”

Jack exhaled, looked like he wanted to shrug Kent’s hand off his shoulder. Didn’t. ”He wasn’t listening to me. He should’ve gone right, I told him to go right!”

”Yeah, I heard. Try not to get yourself worked up, he’ll have it next time. And even if he doesn’t, when’s he ever on the ice? We won’t lose games over him. And we’re drafted soon, he won’t be your headache anymore, so try and keep calm ’til then, yeah? No yelling at the rookies.” He smiled, soft and lopsided. Perhaps too soft, but the rink’s lighting was forgiving. ”Even when they’re being fucking retards.”

And Jack smiled back, same shade of soft. Definitely too soft.

Kent gave his shoulder a quick hit. ”Good work today, Zimms. Now, work a bit on that defence, yeah? I’ll help the others clean up in the meantime. Join you afterwards.”

”I should - ”

”I got it. Go shoot some pucks.”

There was no grateful smile, no thanks, but the lightning in Jack’s eyes had become a distant rumbling. He skated off.

”Right,” Kent muttered, then turned. ”Hey, Moully, help me get these cones, willya?”

”Get them where?” Moully asked, round face so obviously confused Kent almost wanted to give him a hug. Almost.

”Equipment room. You never been there before?” Moully shook his head. ”I’ll show ya, just get ’em.”

Moully nodded, set off in the direction Jack had just left in. Jack, who was now shooting pucks at the goal as if it had personally offended him. The pucks, too.

Resisting the urge to watch him, Kent got to work. He’d have time later, in Jack’s truck. If they didn’t stay too late, the sun would be going down. Jack always looked soft in pink.

”This door,” he told Moully, rapped his knuckles against the bright orange of the equipment room. ”Everything you’ll need is in here. It’s usually locked in the morning, but Zimms’s got a key, and he’ll usually be here. And if he’s not, Coach got one, too. The zamboni guy, too, I think.”

Moully nodded, gently prodded the door open with his foot. ”Thanks.”

”You’ll need to know this. When we’re not here anymore.”

Another nod. ”You know … ”

Kent held the door open with his hip, quirked an eyebrow.

”It’s really great how you guys are doing.”

”Me and Zimms?”

”Yeah.” Moully looked around, finally found the cone corner. The cone-ner. Vixy had been one funny son of a bitch. ”I’ve never had captains like you before. Or teammates. I think.”

Kent frowned. ”Whaddaya mean?”

”Like, I thought I knew a lot of things, but you guys are nothing like that. You’re awesome on the ice, just fucking awesome.” A smile lit up his face, and Kent would’ve smiled as well had the fucker’s words not been so fucking confusing. ”Wait, is that how you’re able to do your one-timer?”

Worrying.

”Moully, I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

”I mean. You guys are, like, together, right? Does that make you more in sync on the ice?”

Those _fucking_ vultures.

Ken placed his cone gently on top of its brother. Careful and coordinated. Practised. ”Sorry?”

The smile on Moully’s face wavered. ”It’s totally cool,” he hurried to add. ”I mean, I think it is, you do you and - and all that. You can pl- ”

”Moully, I have no fucking clue what you’re babbling about.”

”You and, you know, Zimmermann? Aren’t you guys - “

The smile was all gone now, replaced by something meek and slightly scared. Good ”We’re not together. He’s my best friend.”

”Oh.” Moully looked around, stepped forward. Punched Kent’s arm. ”I’m sorry, man. That sucks.”

”René, I don’t think you understand,” Kent said, voice low and level. ”If you think I’m some sorta queer, then I suggest you start thinking of something else. Don’t believe every rumour you hear.”

”But - ”

”And if you think I want to fuck my best friend ’cause I play well with him, then I think you need a fucking reality check and a fucking friend of your own.”

”I just thought - ”

”Don’t. You’re here to play hockey, not think about your teammates fucking. Compris?”

Moully nodded.

”Awesome. And now we’ll never fucking talk about this again, all right?”

The floor must have held the answer to all life’s questions. Kent didn’t check.

”Right?”

”Ouais.”

”Awesome,” Kent repeated and turned on his heel. Resisted the urge to close the door behind him. Leave Moully to the dark.

On the ice, Jack was still shooting, one puck at a time. They’d talked about defence, but … sometimes attack was the best defence. Kent had to give him that.

Kent would give him fucking _everything_. And he knew what would happen if anyone ever found that out.

And how Jack would react if he ever found out about that conversation.

*

”Kenny. Kenny. Kennyyy.”

Kent sighed. ”What.”

In any other situation, the smile Jack sent him would’ve taken Kent’s breath away, melted his heart right out of his fucking body, but after too many shots of questionable liquids, Kent knew exactly how the night was going to end. Sweet words from Jack and a lot of fucking work for Kent.

”You’re so … ”

”So … ?”

”Short!” Jack giggled. Straight up fucking giggled.

Kent resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ”I’m 5’9”, Zimms. 5’9”.”

”Short,” Jack whispered, lips way too close to Kent’s ear. His breath was warm, as was the hand just off Kent’s lower back.

”You’re so fucking drunk, Zimms.” No stutter, no shiver. Never.

Jack nodded solemnly. ”I am. And you’re not. You’re boring.”

”I’m not boring.”

”You are.”

”Am not.”

”You are.”

”I’m not!”

” … you are, though.”

”Fine! I’m boring! Better than being a fucking alcoholic.”

Jack’s brows scrunched together. Had it not been for the fact that Kent was less than an hour from carrying his near-unconscious body home, he might have been able to take him seriously. Might.

Why the fuck he got himself to shit-faced every time, Kent would never uderstand.

”’m not an acloholic.”

”Alcoholic,” Kent corrected. ”And you gotta pull yourself together some time, man.”

Jack rolled his eyes. ”’m fine, Kenny. You’re overreaching.”

”Overreacting. And I’m not. You’re fucking yourself over like this.”

”I’m not!” Too loud, not loud enough to be heard over the music, not enough to sway Kent. Not with the fucker almost falling flat on his fucking face as he stood from the worn-out couch to tower over him.

Time to go.

”Okay, fine. You’re not. But I still think we should getcha home.”

”Not going home. ’m never going home.”

”Yes, you are. We’ve got a game tomorrow, and I don’t need you fucking it up ’cause you’re too hungover.” He reached out for Jack’s arm but was shrugged off.

”I don’t fuck up shit. You fuck shit up!”

”Seriously, stop yourself. We’re going home, and you’re going the fuck to sleep when we do.”

”Stop sounding like my fucking Maman!”

”I will once you stop acting like a fucking child!”

”I don’t need you taking care of me!”

Louder. A few heads turned, some confused, some with barely hidden laughter.

”Then pull yourself together,” Kent hissed. ”And come on!”

He did. At last.

”Hey, where’re ya - ”

”Salle de bains.”

Kent sighed, leaned back on the wall just off the door. He wasn’t a fucking babysitter anymore. Hadn’t been for years.

Only two and a half months until the draft.

The thought disappeared as swiftly as it had come, pushed down by regret and something tightening around his heart, _squeezing_. He couldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t.

Through the crack between the wall and the bathroom door, he could see Jack. Dark hair, Océanic hoodie, eyes glazed over. A bottle of pills – blue this time. That was new. Swallowed dry. Kent wasn’t sure if he was pretending he couldn’t see him, or too drunk to realise he could. Not that it mattered.

He was going to miss him so fucking much. Pills and alcohol and temper and all.

*

”Zimms, come on man, breathe,” Kent repeated, stroked Jack’s back as he tried to fold himself as small as a six-foot hockey player could, arms around his neck and head between his knees. Even through the denim, Kent could hear him sob, loud and desperate. If Kent had been freaking out when he sat down, he was about to fucking panic now.

How the Zimmermanns weren’t able to hear him, he had no idea.

”Come on, Zimms, we’re almost inside. Think you can try and stand for me? Please?”

Jack shook his head. Another ripple tore through his body, threatened to tear it apart.

”Okay, right - ” Kent glanced up at the dark windows of the Zimmermann manor, checked his phone again, as if time had magically recharged the battery. Bit his lip. ”Okay, I’m gonna go get your parents. I won’t be long, I promise - ”

”No!”

One of Jack’s hands had shot out, grabbed his wrist. Held him back. Pressed in marks that were going to be real fucking difficult to explain.

”Zimms, you can’t - _I_ can’t do this. Fuck, you need - ”

”You don’t know what I need,” Jack whispered. ”They can’t – you can’t tell them. They can’t know.”

”They’re your parents!”

Jack shook his head, looked moments away from giving himself whiplash. The grip on Kent’s wrist tightened, bore into bones. He bit down a yelp.

”They have enough to worry about, I can’t – you can’t tell them.”

Please, his eyes said.

I’ll break you, the hand on his wrist agreed.

Kent wasn’t scared of Jack. Never had been. Never thought he would be.

”Okay,” he whispered. ”Okay, I’ll stay. I won’t tell them anything.” The hand tightened again, and Kent bit down a scream. ”I promise! _Fuck_ Zimms, I promise!”

The pressure lifted, allowed blood to once more flow to Kent’s fingers. True enough, there were marks. On the ground, Jack had returned to his previous position, folded in but breathing.

It took half an hour before they rose again, Jack with a wobble in his step and Kent with his hand clutched to his chest as subtly as possible. Nothing broken, he knew. Right hand, anyway. It was fine. They’d both be fine.

*

They made it to the Zimmermann manor close to midnight, exhaustion in their bones and ice in their veins.

It wasn’t every day your team made it to the President’s Cup final. Celebrations were due.

And the team had gone. Where to, Kent never found out, not with Jack’s hand on his arm and a nod towards the ice that didn’t let go until they were both about to pass out. For a long moment, Kent would’ve been fine sleeping on the ice. But they couldn’t.

Jack’s bed was so much nicer. Exhaustion was the least Kent would defy to spend the night there. Or an entire day. An eternity.

They changed clothes in Jack’s bathroom, wordlessly agreed to save laundry for when they eventually woke up.

”Stuck?” Kent whispered.

From somewhere underneath the shirt, Jack muttered something that sounded like no. Pulled. The shirt didn’t budge.

Kent laughed, kept it underneath a hand, let it go once Jack finally got the shirt off and promptly threw it into the sink.

”Shut up!”

For a second, Kent and Jack looked at each other. Then, the moment broke, and their laughter with it. Before Alicia could yell again, Kent found himself in Jack’s arms, face pressed against a warm shoulder, Jack’s face against his in a futile attempt to stifle the sound. Automatically, Kent’s arms came around Jack’s waist, loose, unnoticed, enough to make Kent feel slightly light. That, or the lack of oxygen.

If he was a little hard when they pulled apart, Jack didn’t seem to notice. Unless the red tint to his cheeks meant something other than the difference in temperature between the Québec air and their breaths tangling together.

They didn’t look at each other again until they were firmly beneath the covers, knees touching ever so slightly. One of them should probably turn. If pretence was something they still did.

”You’re fucking insane, Zimms,” Kent whispered. ”I won’t be moving again ’til the fucking final.”

”You’re insane, too,” Jack whispered back. ”You stayed.”

”Touché,” Kent yawned, and Jack laughed, loud and clear in the quiet of the room.

”I said shut. Up!”

Another bout of laughter, hidden beneath the comforter Jack drew over their heads. A little world of their own. Kent could die like that.

”Your accent’s fucking terrible,” Jack whispered.

”Fuck you.”

”Fuck you, too,” Jack replied softly, eyes impossibly softer. Close.

Had they been actors in a movie, this was when Kent would have leaned in to kiss him. And Jack would have kissed back. Because in movies, love was possible. Even for freaks like them.

*

The Cup was lighter this year, less of a shock as Kent lifted it above his head, roared in tune with the crowd, the guys around him. Jack by his side, back to fucking back, ‘cause they were fucking invincible.

Untouchable.

“No time to relax yet,” Dejardin yelled in the dressing room, tried to make himself heard above the noise, the chaos, the sheer ecstasy. “There is still the Memorial Cup!”

A bucket of ice, surely, considering their loss the year before, the massacre that had been the round-robin, but not tonight. Not with how clear they were burning, melting everything that dared touch them, dared to get too close.

They were going to burn forever.

Or three days, at least, until their skates hit championship ice again, and reality returned.

-/ \\-

Kent’s stick hit the floor with a loud clatter, but he hardly noticed. No one did. Not after that game, the Drummondville Voltigeurs, the dirty, cheating, cocksucking motherfuckers and their _fucking_ sharp-shooters.

Dejardin had told them not to let it go into overtime. Closed his eyes when they made it through that with no goals, exhaustion seeping deeper than it had ever gone before, threatened to make them all fall apart right there on the ice. And still a shoot-out left to go.

With tears prickling behind his eyes, burning his already torn-up throat, Kent punched his stall, once, twice, until the tears could be blamed on the pain, the bruises forming on his hand – right hand, he wasn’t a fucking idiot – everything but the goal he had failed to make. Shrugging off his gear, leaving it in a pile half on the floor, he marched to the showers, let the water wash it all away. Ignored Jack stepping in next to him, hands fisted so tight his palms had to start bleeding soon.

He slept in his own bed that night. Shivered.

*

The Windsor Spitfire’s goalie’s eyes widened, but it was too late. Kent knew it, Jack knew it, they all knew it.

A D-man stepped forward, a desperate attempt Kent could only respect him for, just as Kent flicked his wrist, sent the puck off. The other D-man was moving forward, not left enough, Jack was exactly eleven feet away, stick coming down in -

The sound echoed through the rink, the most beautiful fucking thing Kent had ever hear. Jack’s stick hitting the puck, the horn blaring above them.

Jack’s breaths in his ear.

Ten seconds later, ten seconds of dawdling and useless feints, the game came to an end.

It wasn’t a massacre, but it would do.

*

Jack’s fist hit the Rocket’s face with a sickening sound. Crunching. As soon as he pulled back, ready for another, ready for _more_ , blood began spurting from the guy’s nose, covered the lower half of his face in a way that was almost hilarious.

At least their jerseys were red, Kent thought as Jack was pulled away, screaming something that probably made sense to him.

On the bench, Dejardin looked ready to explode, worsened only when the Kelowna Rockets made their first goal of the game.

Whatever. 2-1 was good, too.

Behind him, Bad Bob’s lips were thin, his arms crossed. Alicia had a hand over her mouth.

Kent looked away. Bent down for the face-off.

*

Another overtime, another shootout.

 _Fucking_ Voltigeurs. Thank God he’d never play them again after this.

“Parson, Zimmermann, McCook. Do not let us down.”

And thank God he was getting away from Dejardin, too.

Pushing his mouth guard into place, Kent skated onto the ice. He was tired, so fucking tired, but there was nothing to do. Semifinals were semifinals.

And the Voltigeur goalie was exhausted, too. Slower movements, but just as sharp in following him with his eyes. Kent could work with that.

Setting off gently, Kent pushed the puck ahead, small zig-zags, smooth. Nothing fast, nothing sudden. They’d played too many games against each other for that, the two of them.

Ten feet, seven, five – Kent shot, pushed the puck forwards with as little move of his arm as possible, turned his stick a couple more times.

Grinned as the fucker followed his stick, failed to see the puck get in between his skates. Not until the horn blared and Kent straightened himself up.

One down.

With a nod at Jack as they passed each other by the boards, Kent sat down.

The whole thing was over in seconds. Almost as soon as the puck hit the ice, Jack ran, reached the goal, shot. Wrist shot, not unlike Kent’s, but Jack’s wrists weren’t loose enough. Inflexible. Especially that late in the fucking game, what the fuck was he - 

“ - thinking? He saw ya a mile away, there was no way you’d have gotten that, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jack’s grip on his stick tightened, and for a second, Kent thought he was going to hit him with it. Start a fucking fight, and Kent would have welcomed it.

“Désolé.”

Low, barely a whisper, anger seeping through every breath.

On the ice, the horn blared as Macs sent the puck onto the goalie’s glove, hit it in on the rebound. Balance lost, he fell to the ice, but it didn’t matter.

“See? Even fucking Macs managed!”

Jack didn’t answer.

“Cool. Be like that.” He turned to Cheeky just rising, pulled him in for a brief hug and back slap. “Good thing we pulled you earlier, eh? Make us proud.”

Cheeky nodded, rose about an inch. Stepped onto the ice with his head held high.

Blanche was a good goalie, would probably bring the Océanics some impressive shut-outs in the coming years, but for now, the only thing that could bring them to the finals was a more experienced goalie. One that could handle a Voltigeur all but slamming into him and still keep the puck just off the red line. Millimetres, the ref had a fucking measuring tape out, but still off.

The second Voltigeur skated onto the ice, set off as swiftly as Jack had. Turned every other second, swirled a single time before shooting, a harsh shot far away from the goal, unexpected. Cheeky threw himself down, stuck out his glove, missed the puck by an inch or so.

The horn blared, and someone let out a sound next to Kent. He didn’t look over.

The last fucker stepped onto the ice. There was a set to his jaw, fear in his eyes. Felt the pressure.

Good.

And Cheeky saw it, the beautiful bastard. Without sparing the guy a glance, he leaned his stick on the goal, pulled off a glove. Inspected a nail until a ref yelled. Flashed a smile at the Voltigeur.

Kent couldn’t have done it better himself.

The Voltigeur took off running, kept the puck close, as if someone was going to steal it from him, waited until the last second to shoot. Hesitated for the briefest of moments.

Again, Cheeky threw himself to the side, stuck out a glove. Hit the puck straight on and immediately fell down onto it. No rebounds, no surprises.

No goal.

A roar tore through the Océanic bench, tentative at first, all-encompassing by the time it was no longer on the bench and they were a mess of bodies and gear and _victory_. Writhing through it all, exchanging fist bumps and hits to the back, the shoulder, the butt, Kent roared with them. Pulled Jack in from where he was standing just off the group, as if the victory wasn’t his, too. Squeezed his hand through their gloves.

“Hey. We won.”

Jack opened his mouth. Closed it again. Nodded. Squeezed back.

Kent grinned. Just the final now. One game, and it was all over. Everything they could do, everything they’d been.

That night, Jack was asleep when he came out of the bathroom, on his back with one half of the bed empty. Slipping beneath the covers next to him, revelling in the warmth, Kent let himself grin. One more game. That was what he was going to dream of, he decided. The last game, the Memorial Cup, everything good to come.

”You should’ve gotten the C.”

Or maybe not. Kent opened his eyes, set his jaw. It was too fucking late for that shit.

”You’re better at … people than I am,” Jack continued, as quiet as before. ”You’re a better leader. I shouldn’t have gotten the C.”

Pushing down the urge to tell him to go the fuck to sleep, Kent sighed. ”Fuck, Zimms, don’t say shit like that. You’re a great C, you know that.”

”You would be better” Jack repeated, voice wavering slightly. ”You always know what to say, the guys listen to you. They only listen to me because they have to.”

Kent’s hand twitched, but instead of reaching out he rose to rest on his elbow. ”That’s bullshit, Zimms, and you know it. Of course they listen to you, you’re Jack fucking Zimmermann. You’re one of our top scorers, most of those guys wish they had what you have. They listen to you ‘cause they respect what you do. And they respect me ‘cause they respect what I do. So don’t say shit like that again, alright?”

A breath of quiet, and then Jack nodded, pulled the covers up to his chin, curled into a ball. The dismissal was clear. The conversation was over.

”Goodnight, Zimms,” Kent whispered before laying down as well, chest not quite touching Jack’s back. It would during the night.

Whether the “bonne nuit, Kenny” was truly Jack, or just some part of his imagination, he had no idea. It probably didn’t matter.

-/ \\-

As soon as Kent stepped onto the ice for the his last game in Juniors, his mind went as clear as the ice beneath his skates. All other sounds disappeared but the scrape of his skates against the ice, his own steady breathing. Not even the Spitfire skating past him, mouthing something that was either ’faggot’ or ’back it’ could pierce through the layer of calm surrounding him.

Because Kent was fucking untouchable.

A wave of blue sped past him, all hard lines softened by padding and dark hair just peeking out beneath the helmet.

Jack.

He looked impossibly good like that, the hockey prince hours from claiming his birthright. And Kent would be with him every step of the way.

They met at centre ice, Spitfires on one side, Channer with them on the other, all bent down in position, drawn like a bowstring just short of snapping. Slowly, too fucking slowly, the ref skated up, nodded to his colleagues. Held out his arm.

It was beautiful like that, the puck, the way it stole the breath from a hundred people at the same time.

Until it fell, and chaos erupted, Kent right in the middle where he belonged.

Jack lost the face-off, didn’t waste as much as a split-second before setting after the running Spitfire, Kent hot on his heels. On the other side, just in the Spitfire’s blind spot, Macs came running. Evading the check, Kent snatched up the puck, turned.

Channer was just short off centre ice, Jack not too far from him.

Perfect.

They’d practised the play together, before the one-timer, before everything, and Kent would be damned if he didn’t remember.

A pass to Channy, skating like hell, watching the two other passing to each other, to Kent, in an intricate step sequence until they were close enough. With a flick of his wrist, Channer sent the puck back, and Kent lifted his stick. Shot.

Once more, all breathing in the rink seemed to cease, but Kent knew it was in his head. A moment of perfect still, barely noticeable unless you were in the middle of it. The eye of the hurricane.

Above him, the horn blared and a large body hit him from the side, almost enough to knock him to the ice. Channer yelled something or other drowned in the noise, and Kent smiled into the fabric of the jersey.

It wasn’t every day he got a one-timer.

Three minutes later, the shine wore off as Channer headed into the offensive zone a little too fast, earned them a whistle and a penalty, and Kent found himself running as fast as his legs could take him towards the Océanic goal. It had been a cheap trick, cheap but way too fucking effective. Somehow, both he and Jack had been caught off guard.

On one side of the goal, Macs was already pressed to the boards, nearing a fist-fight with a Spitfire, but the call wouldn’t be made in time. On the other, Moully was in position, head swirling from one advancing Spitfire to the other. The puck stayed between the two of them, passed back and forth at a pace that in any other situation would’ve been impressive.

Left! Kent wanted to scream, but there was no air in his lungs, not for yelling, not in time.

A flick of the wrist sent the puck off less than an inch from Moully’s skate, more than two off Cheeky’s glove and into the net. Another horn drowned out the groans and swears of the Océanic bench to anyone but those skating past.

“We’ll get it next time,” Kent whispered. Jack nodded, didn’t lift his eyes from the ice.

They didn’t. The glaring red 1-1 stared down in mocking as they skated off first period.

Next to him, too close and too fucking far away, Jack was quiet. Kent couldn’t blame him.

In the corner of the dressing room, Cheeky blew his nose.

”Right.” Kent cleared his throat. ”I think we can do better than that next period, don’t you?”

Some guys looked up, others frowned, but before Kent could continue, Dejardin stepped forward. ”Parson is right. You are not playing well - ”

”Not what I meant.”

”- and not playing well will cost us the Cup, compris?”

A murmur of agreement. No eye contact.

”So you will pull yourself the fuck together?”

A few yes’es. A few oui’s. More than he deserved.

”How exactly do you want us to play better?” Kent asked.

If looks could kill, Kent would’ve become a pillar of dust and blown off.

”Their goalie is weak. Defencemen are good, very good, but if you get past them, scoring will not be as difficult as with other teams.”

Easy for him to fucking say.

”Now, strength is in offence mainly, so I expect everyone to be on their toes.” Dejardin turned to Channer, who instinctively ducked his shoulders. ”Chan, icing is the worst fucking penalty you can get, are you a fucking idiot? We cannot afford penalties in this game. Zimmermann, this goes for you, too. No fights. And Parson, no dirty play.”

”I don’t play dirty!”

”Yes, you do, but you cannot now. Focus on game, not strategy. And get us a one-timer,” Dejardin added, looked between Kent and Jack in a way that might once have been pleading, twenty years and two divorces ago.

Kent rolled his eyes. ”You got it coach. Right, Zimms?”

”Sure.”

”And one last thing.” Dejardin turned to Kent, who raised an eyebrow.

”You take face-offs now whenever possible. Zimmermann, take a break.”

Jack stiffened.

Kent bit his lip, but there was nothing he could do. Not now. ”Sure, coach.”

Dejardin nodded, left the dressing room. As soon as he was out, Kent turned to Jack. ”Zimms - “

”Don’t.”

One word, and Kent’s mouth snapped shut. Jack’s eyes were on his skates, breathing even and deep, but Kent knew how quickly that could change. Turning to the other guys, most watching them with wide eyes and water bottles frozen on their ways up, he cleared his throat. ”You heard Coach, get yourselves together, ’cause we’re not losing this shit! Five fucking minutes, and if anyone’s not feeling up for it, _say it_.”

A couple of murmurs, more than a few averted eyes.

Kent exhaled. His legs had started to hurt. He usually didn’t notice that until the third period.

A glance to the left revealed Jack’s eyes firmly ahead.

Cool. They didn’t need to talk to play.

Walking back to the rink was awkward, but as the sounds of the crowd returned – loud, louder than he’d ever heard it – adrenaline took its place.

Get used to it, Kent reminded himself. In three months, it’s the fucking NHL.

He stepped onto the ice with Jack just behind him, stayed by his side as the puck was brought forward and the crowd once more held its breath. They separated.

The whistle blew.

*

He should’ve expected it. Memorial Cup final, the cream of the crop. It wouldn’t be an easy win, they’d all known that, but -

The second Spitfire goal had hurt. A feint, a defence letting down their guard for a second too long, a beautifully executed strategy. Jack had punched the wall in the dressing room afterwards, left an imprint of blood on the wall, and Kent couldn’t blame him. They walked out to the third period all together, silence echoing between them, Dejardin’s yelling left behind among stalls and broken sticks. Even he could only do so much when the puck dropped again. And the puck did drop, because the puck always dropped. One way or the other.

And they played, until their legs gave out, and their lungs burned, and they could taste blood. Because they’d all fought too hard not to continue on. Sacrificed too fucking much.

At a glaring 5.57, Kent was catching his breath during yet another video review with his hand on Moully’s shoulder – a little too tight, but the fucker wasn’t saying _shit_ \- when Macs skated up and punched his shoulder.

”What?”

A nod to the bench where Dejardin was having what looked like a wordless conversation with Cheeky in the net. At last, he nodded, looked back out at the ice. Right at Kent.

A goalie switch. Fucking finally.

With a nod back, Kent gestured to Jack, then towards the net. When the game started back up, Jack slammed himself against the Spitfire receiving the puck, gave Kent just the second he needed to snatch it up and run. Within seconds, he felt Jack’s presence behind him and passed, received again a moment later. Passing, receiving, once in a while sending a quick glance back.

The third time, Kent turned around and almost ran face-first into a rocket with teeth.

A swear bloomed on his lip. He made a sharp turn, only just avoided the Spitfire, lost the puck. Before he could blink, it was passed on, straight towards two motherfuckers having sneaked their way to the Océanic defensive zone.

”Crisse de câlisse -”

Their eyes locked, a fraction of a second before they both took off running. In the net, the D-men were putting up a fight, but more Spitfires were arriving, and Kent didn’t want to think about how it would look with another goal and the captains somewhere in the other fucking end of the rink.

It never got to that.

If Channer would’ve reacted with anything other than a fist to his face, Kent would’ve kissed him the second he’d gotten up from the mess of limbs he and a couple of Spitfires had ended up in. Instead, he made a mental note to wingman him later and snatched up the puck in a turn that sent him straight towards the Spitfires goal.

When a D-man showed up this time, he passed the puck to Jack before turning. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another in front of Jack, stick lifted too high, opened his mouth. No need. Jack ducked, passed, landed on his back on the ice. Kent dove after the puck, hit with the edge of his stick.

It was a lucky shot. A lucky fucking shot, but sometimes that was all that was needed. An advancing Spitfire D-man threw himself to the side, the goalie, too. The horn blew the second they landed on the ice, and Kent exhaled.

Still on the ice, a strong weight landed on top of him, knocked the last air out of his lungs, swiftly joined by another, and one more, until Kent was at the bottom of a dog pile and barely able to see anything but blue and white. Someone was shouting in his ear, drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears.

Eventually, a referee pulled them apart, allowed air to flow back into his lungs and the blood to recede from his head.

”You okay, kid?”

”Fucking golden.”

Seemingly satisfied, the man skated off, left Kent to take another couple of breaths before following.

2-2.

He and the Spitfire bent over, exchanged looks over the puck. A quick glance at the clock would’ve revealed a mocking 3:03. Kent didn’t look.

They could still make it.

The puck dropped, and Kent missed, _ran_. Jack must have had the same thought. Precious seconds were wasted trying not to tumble down together, and they untangled just in time to watch a Spitfire take a shot towards the goal.

Between the pipes, fresh and ready, Blanche stuck out his hand, caught the puck, threw it back just inches from Macs’ stick. Through the bars of his helmet, a smirk was visible, mirrored on Kent’s face until his head turned at a sudden commotion to his right.

Jack and a Spitfire, practically chest to chest. Yelling into each other’s faces. No punching, not yet, but Kent still swore, glanced at the puck still by Macs, back at Jack. Gritting his teeth, he followed Macs. Jack would catch up, as soon as the dick measuring was over. Always did.

But not this time. This time, the moron started pushing, and the Spitfire returned, harder and harder until they were both stumbling. Kent could do nothing but watch from the corner of his eye as Jack pushed the fucker down on his ass.

A whistle blew, loud and shrill, and Kent came to a turning halt, glanced at the clock as he did.

2:17.

At the glass, the arguing continued, now with the ref involved. Eventually, a lineman joined in until there was a nod, a yell, a ref skating towards centre ice.

”Rimouski Océanic number 1, two minutes for fighting.”

Yelling started back up, but Kent didn’t hear it. Neither did Jack, not with the way his face turned the colour of the ice beneath them. He opened his mouth, as if to protest, but a look from Dejardin on the bench made him close it again. Hard.

The ref blew a whistle. Sparing one last glance at the sin bin, at _Jack_ , Kent skated towards the face-off circle. The ugly-ass Spitfire waiting there.

Seventeen seconds when Jack returned. Still time. They just had to keep it going until then.

The puck dropped, Kent shot, Channer ran. Spitfires, too, new ones, well-rested. Fast. Catching up, Kent drew himself in a circle around Channer, caught the puck on the way back, passed almost as soon as it hit his stick. Macs received, took off running, stumbled at a quick hip-check. A dirty move, nothing illegal, enough for another Spitfire to snatch the puck and high-tail it out of there.

Kent couldn’t have done it better himself.

Up close, the guy was almost as small as he was. That was new, Kent thought, and slammed himself against the guy.

The angle was off, not enough practice, but with the blood singing in Kent’s ears, the feel of the guy’s body hitting the glass beneath his, it didn’t matter. Didn’t fucking matter.

God, he’d forgotten how good that felt.

A couple of Spitfires were getting close, Océanics, too, and Kent pushed against the guy again, forced his own stick between the fucker’s and the puck. It had been years since he’d been on the offensive side of a fight like that, wasn’t his strongest move, but he’d be damned if he lost that now. Not in the Memorial Cup final.

The blue line was coming up when a good push and a flick of the wrist sent the puck away from them both. Just off a Spitfire’s skate, Macs’, too, straight towards Blanche who threw himself down.

For one devastating second, it almost looked like he wouldn’t make it, and the crowd felt it. Revelled in it, like the bloodthirsty bastards they were. But he did, and Kent let out a breath. A push of the glove sent the puck to Macs who, after a quick nod from Kent, shot with every ounce of strength in his body. Before anyone could as much as blink, it crossed centre ice, and Kent was right after it, gritting his teeth to the burn of his throat and thighs, his entire fucking body.

A Spitfire D-man caught the puck just into the offensive zone but had no time to shoot before Kent was in his face, startled enough for Kent to hit it instead, off to Channer sliding in from behind. He was gone before anything could develop, a penalty the fuckers might even get away with, followed Channer at a safe distance.

Together, they passed the blue line, puck shooting back and forth fast enough to make even Kent feel dizzy. Bite his tongue.

A flick of the wrist, and Channer raised his stick, took the shot.

”Fuck!”

Three inches.

Kent patted him on the back. ”You’ll get it next time, buddy.” _And I won’t be there_.

Channer nodded darkly, muttered under his breath. ” - no fucking Zimmermann.”

No one was. And by God, did they need him.

”You’re a Chan,” Kent said, giving him one last slap to the shoulder. ”That’s pretty fucking important, too.”

Another nod, as much of a lie as Kent’s words.

0:59. They really fucking needed a Zimmermann.

The puck dropped again, went off with a Spitfire within seconds. A pass to another, a third, and a guy in red took off running with Kent hot on his heels, the Océanic D-men getting into position. They clashed at the blue line, pushed and shoved, but the puck continued forward. A feint, a turn, a stick raised.

In the net, Blanche fell down in a split, caught the puck on the edge of a shin pad.

0:40

Kent caught up, punched the puck as far away as he could, prayed that Macs would step to the side, that Channer would step forward, that Moully would run - 

Channer, mid-run, a hip-check to a Spitfire. Ahead, Moully was off, keeping his body firmly in front of another Spitfire. And Kent ran, dodged one, watched the puck pass to Macs. He needed to get there quick, get some sort of attack organised.

A Spitfire stepped in front of him, wrath in his eyes, and Kent slid to the edge of one skate, nearly lost his balance but continued forward.

Inches from the blue line, Channer passed again, forced Kent to slow down just long enough for a Spitfire D-man to step forward and hijack. A teammate further down the ice received, and Kent turned, grit his teeth, sped after him.

Too close to the boards.

With a swear lodged in his throat – not enough air, too much pain - Kent dodged the hit last second, nearly fell over the guy’s leg. Ahead, the Spitfire with the puck wasn’t as lucky. It almost looked like an accident, the way Macs hit his leg, but there was no way. Not with the refs just out of sight, the linemen occupied by Kent making sure to make as much noise as possible.

No penalties, no breaks, just Marco, the motherfucking beaut, slamming the puck back towards the offensive zone, just into the stick of a blue and white flash in the corner of Kent’s eye.

Jack.

Hope flared up in Kent’s chest, moved through his sore muscles and exhausted limbs like fire.

They could still make it.

0:15

A Spitfire threw himself in Jack’s way, necessitated a no-look pass, _their_ no-look pass, and Kent was on it, caught it and ran. As he passed Jack, their eyes met. Determination, anger, something Kent couldn’t quite place. Enough to push himself even harder, run all the faster.

0:11

Ice flew from the edge of his blades as he pushed forward, ignored everything except the feeling of the puck by his stick and Jack’s presence somewhere to his right. With a flick of his wrist, he combined the two, skated further to the left. When he looked back, a Spitfire had appeared, stuck his stick behind Jack’s and the puck. The sound of his body hitting the side of the glass at full speed was not something Kent ever wanted to hear again, but there was no time to waste on pity.

His own fucking fault anyway.

0:06

Jack pulled back from the boards, headed towards the goal as fast as his legs could carry him, passed the puck for Kent to grab millimetres ahead of the blue line.

0:04

A swift turn brought a Spitfire out of focus, allowed Jack to skate past, eyes set on the goalie. With a quick breath in – no time, no _use_ \- Kent focused on the position on Jack’s stick, the angle, the Spitfires moving.

0:03

He’d made millions of shots in his life. Hundreds if not thousands aimed exactly at Jack’s stick as it came down. An instinct now, new and raw, thrilling beyond anything he’d ever known.

0:02

The puck flew through the air, made it to the position of Jack’s stick the split second it came down, tore through the air once more as Jack, too, came to a halt. Held his breath, like the entire fucking rink with him.

A moment of perfect stillness.

0:01

The goalie didn’t stand a fucking chance. Not against Jack. The two of them together.

Sound exploded, drowned out the horn, but the smiled died on Kent’s face, the pathetic beginnings of a roar with it as the refs met, frowned at each other and the goalie yelling at them, pointing at the clock.

0:0

2-2

Kent didn’t have to look away from the refs entering the footage booth to notice Jack come up by his side. There were no words between them, no need, only a quiet promise in a gloved hand sliding against his. Without thinking, Kent grabbed hold of it. Squeezed.

Neither let go, not until one of the refs left the booth, skated towards centre ice. His face gave nothing away, no emotion, a perfect fucking stillness.

To Kent’s left, Jack’s breathing hadn’t slowed down. Steady, at least. Kent squeezed his hand again. Together, always together, they watched the ref reach centre ice, come to a halt. The hand in Kent’s tightened its grip, just on the right side of painful.

In the quiet of the rink, the ref clearing his throat was an explosion.

”After video review, we can conclude, there is a good goal. The Rimouski Océanics are Memorial Cup champions.”

It was neutral, monotone, and Kent could’ve fucking cried, right fucking there, right at the edge of the rink with Jack by his side and the words ‘Memorial Cup champions’ echoing through his head, his body, his fucking _soul_. To his right, Jack looked like he was about to faint. They locked eyes, and had the first teammate not hit them then, Kent would’ve kissed him. Grabbed his face and pulled him down, pressed their lips together until neither could breathe and time stood still again and the whole fucking world disappeared. Because it never fucking existed in the first place. Not with Jack in his arms.

Instead, hundreds of pounds of ecstatic hockey players hit them, forced their grip apart and screamed so loud Kent feared he’d go deaf. Still, he found himself grinning back, arms around the shoulders of his teammates, screaming right alongside them.

In those seconds, the world was entirely white and blue, blue and white – and silver, silver that would soon have his name engraved on it. His and Jack’s and Channer’s and Macs’ and Blanche’s and even fucking Moully’s, that beautiful motherfucker. Craner and Marco. Cheeky.

For how long they stood there, pushing each other to and fro until someone finally lost his balance and took the whole team down with him, Kent had no idea. And it didn’t matter, he couldn’t fucking care less, ‘cause they’d done. They had actually done it.

They were Memorial Cup champions.

The rest of the night passed in a blur, blue and white and silver, screams and hollers and kisses, more alcohol than Kent could remember ever drinking. There was hand-shaking, the other team, some important grown-ups, each other for the hell of it. Someone lost his jersey along the way, sticks, helmets they’d never wear again. Kent could swear he saw a guy running past an official in just his socks.

And they were in the dressing room, poured champagne and cheep beer and scotch down each other’s throats, missed the mouths with most but not caring in the least.

At one point, shirt off and with a girl’s fingers tugging at his dog tags, Kent looked over at Jack. He was smiling, they all were, subdued and subtle, but there was something in his eyes, something that made Kent’s stomach curl. Before he had the chance to head over, the girl grabbed him by the arm, pulled him back into the group where someone poured an entire bottle of something strong onto his face. Jack got a turn, too, just after, but instead of standing still and accepting like Kent had, he grabbed the bottle from Channer’s hand, threw his head back to down it. For five long seconds, the dressing room went silent. Then, Jack pulled the bottle from his mouth, threw it on the ground and let out a howl the like of which Kent had never heard before, and never would again. It went straight to his groin, took his fucking breath away, and had he been in any doubt that he was in love, so fucking in love that he could die of it, it disappeared.

And then it was all over. The guys slipped out of their gear, into their own clothes, still gross and sweaty from the game but showers could come when they were sober. Kent blinked, and they were gone, off to some place to party that might have been Blanche’s, might have been a nearby gym. Luc Besoin’s house.

Kent didn’t care. All he saw was Jack’s absence.

With a frown, he left the dressing room to the faint tunes of a victory song. The hallways were empty, as was the spot by the dumpster. The offices, too.

It had been a long time since he’d seen their game rink without people, spectators or teammates or a zamboni driver, someone to chase the silence away. That night, there were none, save for a lone figure on the ice.

Jack.

Always Jack, hitting puck after puck into the empty goal.

Grateful that he was still in his gear, most of it anyway, Kent slipped off his skate guards and stepped onto the ice.

”Hey.” A knife to the silence, a sledgehammer to the calm.

Jack looked up.

”The fuck’re you doing out here? We won. In case you didn’t notice.”

”I noticed,” Jack said. His voice was raw, from the champagne, or the yelling, or both. ”There’s always more to do.”

 _You can always be better._ I _can always be better._

”We can’t do any more. There’re no more games. It’s over.”

Jack smiled, thin and humourless. ”It’s never over.”

Another puck slammed into the net.

Kent bit his lip. Resisted the urge to physically pull Jack off the ice. ”Lemme get my stick, I’ll join ya.”

When he returned, Jack was shooting again, methodic as a metronome. A prince in his kingdom.

”Ready?”

Jack nodded, positioned himself.

And they were off. Jack’s movements were rough, clearly tired after the game but filled with an anger that caught Kent completely off guard. Bloomed in his own chest a second later.

It really had been a long fucking time since he’d played physical.

They slammed together, hard enough for the mouth guard to rattle inside Kent’s mouth. The hit was dirty, no fucking doubt about it, but Jack hit the glass. Kent’s shoulder hurt, he hadn’t done it properly, but it felt good. It felt fucking amazing.

When Jack picked himself up again, his eyes were hard, face twisted into a grimace that made something cold run down Kent’s spine. Instinctively, he took a step back, but Jack followed him, and soon they were close, way closer than Kent had ever competed with anyone, and enough to take his breath away. It was impossible to tell whose stick controlled the puck, if any did at all. Eventually, Kent gained the upper hand and shot the puck away. He turned to face Jack with something that might have been a smirk on his face, but the look that met him stopped it short.

Fury. Pure and unkempt fury. Bared teeth, hard eyes, and all Kent could think was _run_.

So he did, turned tail and ran as fast as his legs could take him, felt Jack inches from him, heard his breathing, harsh and fast in the suddenly suffocating quiet. Three feet from the rink entrance, Jack’s hand came down on his shoulder, forced him to turn, slammed his back against the glass. Pain shot up Kent’s shoulder, tore a yelp from his lips, swallowed back down as Jack tore off his gloves.

Fear gripped Kent’s spine, pulled him tight. There was no escape, no time, nothing to do but close his eyes and prepare for the hit.

The pain was a shock, cold and merciless.

On his forehead.

Kent’s eyes snapped open, the exact moment his brain caught up with his senses, recognised the helmet knocked into his forehead, the nose smashed against his, the teeth that didn’t belong to him clacking against those who did where his mouth guard had been knocked astray.

The lips on his.

Rough, deeply uncomfortable, and so much more desperate than Kent had ever dared to dream.

And Kent kissed back, pulled off his own gloves with far more force than elegance. His hands met Jack’s cheeks, pushed him back just long enough to spit the mouth guard out, then pulled him back in and bit his lip. The skin didn’t break beneath his teeth, not quite, but Jack moaned, and Kent felt it in his throat, his groin, the tips of his fingers. There was no pretence, no half-arsed excuses he’d need to think up, not with Jack’s tongue slipping into his mouth, the hands on his waist pulling him in closer, closer, closer, and _never fucking close enough_.

Kent moved his hands up, pushed off Jack’s helmet and curled his fingers into the hair beneath, pulled until the moans turned to gasps of pain. On his waist, cold fingers slipped beneath his jersey, scratched the under-armour there. A thigh moved between his, and Kent ground down, hard and dirty, earned himself another gasp and stars behind his eyelids. Ignoring the pain of his jockstrap digging in, Kent ground down again, moaned again. If he could skate through the pain, he could fuck through it, too.

Jack’s fingers found their way beneath Kent’s under-armour, pressed in until Kent was close to tears and pulling desperately at the hair between his fingers. Strands came loose, handfuls if he wasn’t careful, but neither of them were, neither of them wanted to be. It should’ve been disgusting, terrifying in its intensity, it really, _really_ should, but Kent was rock-hard, and Jack’s hands were on his stomach, and he was pulling back with swollen lips and dilated pupils, and Kent could have come from the fucking sight alone.

”We should – dressing room. Get off the ice.”

A part of Kent, primal and hungry, wanted to refuse, wanted to push him down on the ice and take him right then and there. Force him open and fill him up, make him _scream_.

But he didn’t. Instead, he nearly fell onto the ice as Jack took a step back, followed him on legs that wouldn’t stop shaking, that were still sore, and _didn’t fucking matter_. Nothing fucking did, nothing but the cold spreading from the places on his body that were previously touching Jack and now screamed at the loss.

The door of the dressing room slammed shut, and Jack was still. Wide eyes met Kent’s, pupils blown so wide only a slight ring of blue was visible. For a long second, they stood like that, stared each other down. Then, Kent’s hands were on Jack’s face and Jack’s on his jersey, tugging so hard the fabric threatened to tear, but it didn’t matter, because they were no longer Rimouski Océanics, they wouldn’t need those fucking jerseys anymore. Both hit the floor, quickly joined by underarmour, and then hands were on skin, and any last hint of rational thought left Kent’s mind.

He’d never realised just how big Jack’s hands were, how warm they felt on his skin. Dreamed about it, sure, but dreams had nothing on reality.

Nothing he’d ever felt had.

With a little too much force, he pushed Jack back until his back hit the wall. There was a gasp in his mouth, from the cold, or the hit, or Kent’s hand sliding down his chest to his stomach, trailing at the line of hair until coming to a stop at the waistband of his pants. The sound changed, hitched when he slipped his fingers down and found him hard and already fucking leaking in the stupid fucking jockstrap he was still fucking wearing. In one rough movement, Kent wrapped his hand around Jack, tugged, shivered at the scream that met him. Jack’s hand came to clasp on his shoulder blade, as if holding himself in place as Kent began moving, slowly at first, unevenly, shaking hands and shaking breath. The grip tightened, and Jack’s head came to rest on his shoulder, breath warm on the already overheated skin, and Kent wanted to tell him to breathe, to relax, but there were no words, not when Jack’s hand moved down, too. Tentative fingers dipped down his waistband, tentative until they brushed against Kent and a spasm ran up his body, followed by a sound that in any other situation would’ve embarrassed him. But not now, not with Jack’s hand growing bolder. They were shaking, both of them, not going to last very long, and it didn’t fucking _matter_.

Nothing did, nothing but the burning skin in Kent’s hand, around him, the slick of sweat and pre-come. It didn’t take long for their rhythms to match up, to fall into the synchronicity they’d perfected on the ice. Kent closed his eyes, bit down on Jack’s shoulder.

Let go.

A hitch in his breath was the only warning Kent got before sticky liquid hit his hand and his stomach, and Jack bit down on his shoulder, drew blood, stifled a groan Kent wanted in his fucking mouth. The rhythm on Kent slipped, almost enough to make him scream, but it was enough. The heat building in the pit of his stomach spilled, threatened to swallow him up. A noise left his lips, something that wasn’t quite Jack’s name but probably still was.

Reality returned in stages, in ragged breaths and sweaty skin and the sound of a siren outside. They didn’t move, just breathed into each other, much too loud for the heavy silence of the dressing room Kent hadn’t noticed before but which was now impossible to ignore.

Their pants had been pushed down to mid-thigh. With the mess drying on their stomachs, it looked fucking ridiculous. Embarrassing. But Kent didn’t feel ridiculous, not with Jack in his arms, and Jack curled around him in return. 

Eventually, they pulled away from each other, grimaced at the sound. Jack’s cheeks were red, almost as bright as his mouth, and it took Kent’s breath away. He watched, finally let himself watch as Jack slipped out of the last of his clothes and walked towards the showers with a shake in his step that made something like pride swell in Kent’s chest. Without looking back, Jack turned on the water, still red, still shaking, still the most beautiful fucking thing Kent had ever seen.

He wanted inside of him. Wanted to crawl in and curl up, take him against the shower wall, find out if his ass was as tight as he thought it would be. Hear the sounds Jack would make when someone filled him up. Find out if he screamed, then, too. If he’d scream Kent’s name.

Gasping in a breath, Kent pushed his own clothes off, walked to the shower. Washed off the drying mess of someone’s else come, his own, watched it flow down and disappear in the drain. The only evidence of what had just happened. Save for the memories. Those would be with him forever.

*

Kent returned to a quiet and dark house. Without bothering to look at the clock in the hall, he took off his boots and tip-toed his way through the living room, expertly avoided the creakiest places. The bedroom door closed with a soft click, and he let himself slide down against it.

There was a crack in the ceiling, in the corner above his bed, shaped somewhat like a lightning bolt. Three years, and he’d never noticed.

He didn’t feel much different. There were no new colours, no new sounds, nothing. Just the knowledge that he was a Memorial Cup champion, whatever the fuck that ended up meaning in the grand scheme of things. A Memorial Cup in exchange for his virginity. Not the worst fucking bargain in the world.

A grin spread on his face, wide and uncontrollable, nearly followed by a laugh no one else in the house would’ve appreciated.

In the fucking dressing room. Good fucking thing he wasn’t on the team anymore, that he never had to set foot there anymore. The room in which he fucked a teammate. Lost his virginity. A fucking dressing room, of all fucking places.

With an exhale that sounded alarmingly close to a laugh, he rose to his feet, staggered towards the bed. Exhaustion had set in long ago, and he didn’t bother taking off his clothes, just let himself fall. Deeply regretted it as his phone pressed into his lower back. He pulled it out.

Eleven unanswered messages. One from his Ma, a couple congratulatory from Bad Bob, from Besoin. Molyneux wanting to talk.

A twelfth message ticked in, sent Kent’s heart leaping up his throat. With shaking fingers, he opened it. Frowned. Empty, save for a single period. Before he could text anything back, Britney began singing, two words in before he could answer the call.

”Hello?”

Even if he hadn’t seen the name, Kent would’ve known it was Jack from the breathing in his ear, loud, far too quick, far too shallow. His heart sank. ”Zimms - hey, Zimms, try and breathe for me, yeah? Are you at home? Where’re your parents?”

Jack took a rasping breath, interrupted midway by a sob.

”Shit, Zimms, just breathe. Talk when you can.”

Another breath, laboured, more tears. Kent closed his eyes, uncurled his fingers from the sheets. It was all going to be okay.

”Kenny?”

”Yeah?”

”What if - ” Jack took another deep breath, loud and raspy.

”What if what?”

”What if someone - what if someone saw?”

”Saw what?”

Silence, save for the breathing. At least it was still there.

”Saw what, Zimms?”

”Us. What we … what we did. Earlier.”

Kent exhaled. ”No one saw. We were alone, Zimms. No one could’ve seen us.”

”But how do you know?” Another sob tore through Jack’s body, followed by something in French, too slurred for Kent to understand.

It was too fucking late for that shit. ”We were alone, Zimms. No one knows.”

”What if there were cameras - what if they had cameras and, and they sell it, and everyone will know, and - ”

”There’re no cameras in a dressing room, Zimms, you know that.”

”But what about the rink? There could be - “

Kent pulled the phone from his hear. Closed his eyes. Breathed. ”I don’t know, Zimms, okay? I don’t know if there’re fucking cameras in the rink, but no one’s gonna sell that.”

On the other end, Jack’s breath hitched.

”No one’s going to know. I promise.”

”But you can’t know - ”

”No. I can’t. But it’s not going to happen. And if it does, your parents’ll get their lawyers on whoever sold it’s ass faster and harder than Channer on something he can get his dick in. You know they will.”

There might have been a laugh on the other end. That, or another sob.

”Go to sleep, Zimms,” Kent whispered. ”You’re tired, we’re both tired. It’ll look better in the morning. Just try to sleep, yeah?”

”Will you come over?”

”Tonight?” It was too late, much too late, but -

”Tomorrow.”

Kent closed his eyes. “I’ll be there first thing.”

With a last exhale, Jack hung up, left Kent once more alone in the darkness of his bedroom and somehow more exhausted than when he’d first arrived home.

He needed to get some sleep. Jack never slept in, and Kent had made a promise.

They only had five more weeks.

-/ \\-

Kent slung the backpack further up his shoulder. It didn’t help much. The back of his running shoes were still digging in between his shoulder blades, probably hard enough to leave a bruise, and his flannel had soaked through halfway to the Zimmermann manor.

Fucking weather forecasters that never knew what the fuck they were doing.

”Kent?”

An inch from the call button on the gate system, Kent’s finger froze as his head turned to where Bob was jogging over. ”What are you doing here so early?”

Kent let his arm fall. ”Jack asked me to come over?”

”Really?” Bob’s smile widened. ”Well, that’s great. Saves us the trip to your house later.”

Kent blinked.

”Combine.”

Kent blinked again. ”Right. Of course. Thanks.”

”You’ve got everything you need in there?”

Mentally running through whatever shit he’d thrown in that morning, Kent adjusted the backpack again. ”Think so.”

”Check it over, borrow some of Jack’s if you need it.” With another smile, Bob reached over and punched in the code of the gates. ”I’m going to take another round. You can just go in, Jack’s awake. I think. Have fun, you two.”

”Thanks?”

Bob’s grin widened again, and had it not been for the sun glowing brightly behind Kent, he could’ve sworn he saw him wink.

Inside, he followed the smell of something frying to the kitchen, leaned subtly against the door frame as Jack continued stirring what looked like bacon and eggs. The t-shirt he was wearing was threadbare, an old Océanic one, perfect with the slightly-mussed hair. He must have only just gotten up. Hadn’t even shaved off the slight shadow on his face. Kent could almost feel it under his lips.

A small shiver ran down his spine.

Jack chose that moment to look up, did everything and nothing to snap Kent out of whatever haze he’d fallen into. A slow smile spread on his face, made something warm bloom in the pit of Kent’s stomach.

”Heya, Zimms. How are ya?”

”Hey, Kenny. I’m good.”

”Glad to hear it.” Kent walked over, dumped his bag on the floor, jumped onto the counter. ”I was kinda worried aboutcha last night. After … “

Jack looked back down, bit his lip ever so softly. As if he knew what effect it had on Kent. ”I’m okay. Sorry for worrying you. Have you had breakfast?”

An apple and a quick kiss to Sylvie’s cheek as he let her know he’d be going to Jack’s. He’d been out before she’d even had a chance to open her mouth. ”Not really.”

Jack nodded, grabbed another plate from the cupboard with Kent’s eyes trailing his every move.

”I don’t wanna take your food.”

”You’re not. I can make more if I need to.”

Another smile, enough for Kent’s own face to crack. He hid it behind a forkful of bacon, nearly choked as soon as the taste hit his tongue. On the other side of the counter, Jack snorted.

”What the fuck is this?”

”It’s turkey,” Jack replied. ”And it’s fucking delicious.”

”It’s fucking not,” Kent muttered, shovelled in a forkful of eggs to get the taste out.

”I like it.”

”’course you do, you fucking weirdo.”

Jack’s fork stopped a couple of inches off his mouth. ”You’re as weird as I am.”

It was Kent’s time to snort. ”Nah, not even close.”

”Eat up. We need to be ready for combine.”

”Whatever y’say, cap.”

Jack sent him a look. Kent smiled back around a mouthful of eggs.

They left for Toronto in the afternoon, bags in hands, Alicia and Bob trailing behind. Spent three hours in the airport waiting for the aeroplane to come in, another two on the plane pretending to be asleep. Kent was, at least. Anything to play off the way Jack’s head was resting on his.

It hadn’t even been a question whether or not they’d share the room, and with only a handful of hours until the beginning of combine, Kent hadn’t thought to fight the decision. Neither had Jack who stumbled into the room with his eyes half-closed, passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Didn’t brush his teeth, didn’t change his clothes.

Kent bit down a smile, kneeled down to work his shoes off before curling up behind him, grimacing at the scratchy cotton against his arm and neck. At some point, Jack would need to buy new shirts. Or perhaps the Aces would just supply him with some. Or the Canadiens.

When he fell asleep, it was with a smile on his lip.

When he was woken up a handful of hours later, it was to the sound of retching. Blinking, Kent looked around the dark hotel room. Shivered. His back was uncovered, but there were drying patches of sweat on his chest where Jack had been lying. Not long, then.

3.45 AM.

From the bathroom, Jack vomited again. Kent grabbed blindly for one of the pillows, placed it firmly over the ear not squished into the bed. It was too fucking early for that shit.

The bathroom door opened, and Kent willed his breathing to even out. Softly, but with an unmistakable stumble in his step, Jack walked past the bed, plopped down on the other. With shaking hands, he zipped one of the bags open, pulled something rattling out. Swallowed once, then again after a moment’s hesitation before placing the bottle of pills back and padding over to their bed. Kent felt the heat before he even lay down, shirtless this time. Within minutes, his breathing evened out.

Kent, however, was wide awake.

Against him, Jack was scorching but completely still. After a couple more minutes, Kent gently pulled back, waited for the slightest of stirs that never came. Swinging his legs off the bed, he tip-toed to the other bed. The bag was still open, the orange bottle under a pair of running shorts. Picking it up, Kent threw a short glance at Jack, sleeping like the dead, then popped the bottle open, caught one of the pills as it rolled out. It looked small in his hand, smaller than he’d thought it would be, grainy white up close. Kent swallowed it dry, like he’d pretended not to see Jack do countless times, only just managed to keep an aggressive coughing fit down as the pill forced its way down his throat, hard and so much larger than it had felt in his hands.

He returned to his bed with a string of swears under his breath, stifled them in the soft, sweaty skin of Jack’s back and forced his eyes closed. Waited for something inside of him to change.

Nothing did.

”You awake?”

Kent opened his eyes, immediately squeezed them closed again at the sight of Jack on the floor, stretching in ways he really shouldn’t be able to that early in the morning. The sunlight was shining in from one half of a window, uncovered so the bed remained in darkness.

”I am now,” Kent replied, ignored the swell in his chest, opened the eye mostly hidden in the pillow. Settled on the miracle that was Jack’s ass. ”Are you?”

Jack shrugged and moved into another pose that forced Kent to rearrange himself in the bed as well. There was a subtle sheen of sweat on Jack’s skin. He knew how that tasted.

No one could take that away from him.

”Have you been out running?”

Jack shook his head. ”Just some exercises.”

_I didn’t want to go outside._

”How long’ve you been up?”

Jack shrugged again. ”A few minutes.”

_A while._

”What time is it?”

”Breakfast’s in fifteen minutes.”

”Not what I asked.”

”Look for yourself, then.”

Kent sat up. ”Who pissed in your cereal?”

”No one.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Kent rolled out of bed, landed on shaky legs before padding over and plopping down next to where Jack was still stretching. ”Zimms, you gotta fucking relax, okay? Winding yourself up won’t make ya do better.”

”Not taking anything seriously won’t, either.”

Kent almost laughed. ”You think I’m not taking this seriously? Fucking _combine_?”

”Kenny, this is the last time we have to prove ourselves before the draft!”

Wide eyes pierced through Kent in a way that made a tingle of memory run up his spine. He pushed it down. ”And so what? We’re fucking amazing, Zimms. And we’re gonna go first, we both know that. No matter how much you fuck it up here, your stats speak for themselves. So do mine.”

”We can’t know that.”

”Guess not,” Kent shrugged. ”But I betcha I’m gonna be right.” He leaned forward to seal his point with a quick peck to Jack’s lips, only to immediately recoil.

It had been one fuck after a win. Not a marriage proposal. He couldn’t fucking - 

Before he could finish the thought, apologise, make some excuse, Jack grabbed his cheek to fit their mouths together properly. Left Kent with little other choice but to melt into him.

*

They returned to Montreal on an afternoon flight on the last day of May, sore and satisfied and at the fucking top. Kent wanted little more than to push it in Jack’s face, have him finally believe it, but with Jack’s head on his shoulder and Kent in turn resting on him, it was difficult to do.

On the other side of the aisle, Bob and Alicia were in a similar position, looking everywhere but at where their son and his friend’s hands were clasped under the relative secrecy of a grey blanket.

”Youth,” Robert Zimmermann whispered to his wife.

”Shut it, old man, you’ll wake them,” she whispered back and ran her thumb over the back of his hand, gently caressed the gold band on his finger that she’d put there twenty years earlier.

Chuckling softly, her husband pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head.

Beneath the blanket, Kent squeezed Jack’s hand.

-/ \\-

It wasn’t even a question that he’d stay. Or, it was, but a brief one on the car ride back that Kent barely even noticed until he was standing in the bedroom of the Bouchard house that they’d given him almost three years prior, throwing everything he’d once removed from his Ma’s apartment into a suitcase with Bad Bob Zimmermann judging his taste in caps and Alicia Zimmermann, née Bloom, charming Sylvie and Bernard in the kitchen.

”Thanks,” he blurted.

Bad Bob looked up. ”You’re always welcome, Kent. You know that.”

And that was it. The bags went into the car, Kent went into the back seat, and they continued driving.

Home, Kent almost caught himself thinking.

Pulling the suitcases back out of the trunk, Bob and Alicia already on their way inside, Jack leaned over and pressed his lips to Kent’s.

Home.

Before he fully noticed, a week had flown by in a haze of swimming, running, video games, family dinners that somehow included Kent. Messy handjobs. They slept in the same bed, explored each other’s bodies in ways Kent had only dreamed of, tasted words he’d never had the courage to say out loud, but tried the best he could to press into Jack’s mouth and onto his skin, praying they’d reach the core of his very being where they belonged.

”Hockey stick,” Jack said.

Kent snorted. ”Seriously, Zimms? Do you just see hockey in everything?”

”It’s a fucking cloud, Kenny!”

”That just so happens to be shaped like a hockey stick?”

”That’s what I’m seeing. What do you see?”

Kent hummed. ”A dick.”

The laugh that followed nearly sent them both out of the hammock.

”Jesus, Kenny.”

”I’d do him, too,” Kent said, narrowly avoiding the arm threatening to push him off.

”There’s something wrong with you,” Jack concluded.

”Says you.”

A small smile ghosted over Jack’s face. ”I do.”

Kent smiled back, ran a finger down Jack’s forearm. Blue eyes met his, no pretence, no excuses, moved down. Jack licked his lips, and that did it. As much as the hammock allowed it, Kent turned to his side, placed a hand on Jack’s cheek and kissed him, relished the feeling of Jack pushing back up. It didn’t take long before he was in his lap, hands on his face and Jack’s in his hair.

And if there was a heaven, that had to be it.

He moved his leg to place it between Jack’s, squawked into his mouth as the hammock nearly threw them off again. They pulled back, Jack with an airy laugh that was quickly silenced by Kent capturing his mouth again, given so easily it made him light-headed.

By the fourth near-fall, Jack pulled back again. ”Perhaps we shouldn’t do this here.”

The protest was on Kent’s tongue, whiny, childish, but - ”Shit, your parents - ”

”They’re not here. They left half an hour ago.” Jack smiled, soft and warm. “Didn’t you notice?”

”I was a little busy.”

Jack’s laugh rung between them, more than enough for any and all rational thought to once more leave Kent’s head. He grinned back. ”How ’bout a swim?”

”Now?”

”Why not. We’re alone, aren’t we?”

And Jack smiled back, didn’t stop until he had Kent pressed against the stone edge of the pool, clothes in a pile a few feet away, water up to his chest and Jack’s hand working at them both. They weren’t kissing anymore, just breathed in the same air as heat pooled in the pits of both their bellies. Kent came with a cry that startled them both, another as Jack tensed, nails digging into his neck.

”In a fucking pool.” Kent laughed, loud and free in the summer breeze ”That’s so _fucking_ disgusting.”

”We’ll change the water,” Jack muttered, pressed another kiss to the corner of Kent’s mouth.

And Kent kissed back, murmured three words into Jack’s lips he’d never say it loud.

Those were the perfect days, breathtaking and fully dissociated from reality.

And then there were the days he could’ve killed him.

Glancing down at his watch, Kent swore. Fucking piece of shit of a first communion gift, giving out when he finally needed it. Around him, the music was blaring, and Kent really wanted a word with whoever was controlling the playlist, ’cause his taste was fucking _shit_.

‘The other guys’ll be there,’ he’d said. ‘They’ll be suspicious if we don’t show up’.

And Jack had rubbed his arm, looked away. Come with anyway. Disappeared as soon as they walked in the door.

It took three or so hours before Kent finally found him, in a corner of the living room of whoever’s house with a solo cup and a dazed expression on his face. Next to him, a girl was pressing her boobs into his face. Kent downed the rest of his beer, tried to drown the disgusting taste at the back of his mouth. Didn’t work.

It took three feet separating them before Jack finally looked up, cracked a slow smile. ”Kenny. Didn’t see you there.”

”Heya, Zimms.” Kent plopped himself down, drunker than he was, legs almost in Jack’s lap. ”Missed me, didja?”

”Always miss you,” Jack said, threw an arm around Kent’s waist and nuzzled into his hair. Next to him, the girl frowned, and Kent wanted nothing more than to press his lips to Jack’s, force his tongue down his throat and show that bitch whom he belonged to.

”Dude, watch the cap,” he said instead, pushed gently at Jack’s head.

”Don’ deserve you,” Jack slurred, low and soft enough to be little more than vibrations and breath against Kent’s cheek.

”Nah, y’don’t,” Kent replied, patted an unfairly firm pec. Wondered for the nth time why he couldn’t just lean in and kiss him. The answer came as a guy he vaguely recognised bumped into the couch, nearly fell onto them, and Jack moved just the right way for a distinct smell to reach Kent’s nose.

”Zimms.”

”Mm.”

”Please tell me you haven’t smoked fucking weed.”

”Nope.”

”You sure? ’Cause ya sure fucking smell like it.”

”Haven’t smoked.”

” … have you eaten anything … odd?”

Jack frowned. ”There was … there was this girl with these, these really awesome brownies … ” he trailed off.

Kent looked around. No one was close enough to hear. The girl from earlier had left. ”You fucking didn’t.”

”They were good,” Jack said, retracted his arm from Kent’s waist.

”Zimms, we are so fucking close to the draft, you can’t fucking blow it ‘cause of _weed_! What if someone finds out, huh? What’ll ya do, then?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Jack’s eyes widened, almost comical had it not been for the way his breath hitched, quietly enough for only Kent to notice. As it always was.

”Why don’t we get out of here?” Kent suggested, placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. When he didn’t get an answer, he repeated the question.

“No - “ Jack flapped, nearly hit Kent in the face.

“The fuck – no, come on, we’re getting outta here – this isn’t a suggestion, Zimms!”

Another sound left Jack’s throat, guttural and impatient, angry. With one hand on Kent’s shoulder, the other on his hip, he leaned in.

“What the fuck - “ Kent moved his head, grimaced at the wet slide of Jack’s lips on his cheek. “Dude, let go, not – the fuck d’ya think you’re doing?”

The shove was too hard, nearly sent Jack onto the floor, but he caught himself at the last moment, steadied on the armrest, a look of utter betrayal in his eyes. At any other point, Kent would’ve cared. Now, he grabbed Jack’s arm, hoisted him to his feet and dragged, ignored the protests until they died down.

It took them nearly an hour getting home, stumbling through the dark at fuck knows what in the morning, but somehow they made it in and up to Jack’s room without waking up the entire fucking house. Kent silently thanked both Zimmermann parents for giving him the code of the front gate. With the way Jack’s hands were shaking, there was no way they’d have gotten in.

The _fucking_ idiot.

When he deposited him on the bed, Jack’s eyes were squeezed shut, but his breathing was almost normal. Kent gave his hand a quick squeeze before pulling away to undo his shoe laces.

”Don’t … need ’em,” Jack muttered.

”What you need is to fucking sleep off whatever you’re on.”

”Sleep … ” Jack repeated.

”Yup. Sleep. It’s pretty neat.”

”I’mma sleep,” Jack mumbled, eyes already drooping.

”You do that, buddy,” Kent replied, pulled off his own shoes and flopped down besides Jack, pulled the comforter up to cover both of them. They were both fully dressed and going to regret it in the morning, but that was a problem for post-sleep Kent. And Jack.

”Goodnight, Zimms,” Kent whispered, pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.

“ … bonne nuit, Kenny.”

-/ \\-

And through it all, time went on, flowed like water from a mountain. _Un ruisseau d’une_ fucking _montagne_.

They shuffled into the kitchen side by side, knocking together at every other step. Even through the fabric of their hoodies, the heat was radiating off Jack and under Kent’s skin. Perk of being Canadian, he thought. Perk of being a Canadian’s boyfriend.

Kent licked his lips. Boyfriend. His eyes darted to Jack opening up a cupboard. The muscles in his back rippled despite the loose fabric around it.

Boyfriend.

He opened his mouth.

”Kent?”

The words died before he could find them. ”Yeah?”

Jack didn’t answer, just raised an eyebrow and held up a bag of bread with one of Bad Bob’s stickers on it. Another post-NHL hobby.

”Sure?”

Jack nodded. ”Hand me the knife, would you?”

Kent jumped onto the counter reached the knife-holder. ”Everything for you, babe.”

A soft laugh and the weight in his hand lifted off was all he got. Kent bit down the flared-up disappointment and jumped off the counter.

”Butter?”

Jack’s movements stilled for the slightest of seconds. ”I’ll just have some sausage, I think.”

”’course you will,” Kent smirked, heart still not quite in place. Never was with Jack around.

”Screw you.”

”Gladly.”

They ate in silence, sitting on and by the breakfast counter respectively. Jack was staring into the air, forehead slightly scrunched. A million miles away. Kent knocked his foot into his thigh, interrupted the fingers drumming on the tightly-drawn denim. When Jack looked up, he opened his mouth to display the half-chewed toast.

Jack made a face. ”That’s gross, Kenny.”

”You’re gross,” Kent countered, still chewing.

”We’re both disgusting.”

Another kick followed before Jack rose and walked towards the sink, deposited his plate with a too-loud noise followed by a quiet swear. Jamming the rest of his toast into his mouth, Kent walked over as well and slid his own plate over Jack’s with as much subtlety as he could muster. Jack raised an eyebrow but rinsed it off anyway.

”You’re a real fucking housewife, y’know that?” Kent grinned. ”Desperate housewives of Montréal.”

Jack frowned. ”We’re in Rimouski.”

Kent snorted, took in the look of absolute confusion on Jack’s face and nearly doubled over laughing.

”What did I say? Kenny, come on! What’s so fucking funny?”

Kent shook his head. ”You’re too fucking much sometimes, Zimms. Too fucking much.” The words were followed by a quick poke to Jack’s ribs. A flash of irritation flashed over his face, but Kent darted out of the way before he had the chance to retaliate.

With a roll of his eyes, Jack put up his middle finger, to which Kent stuck up his own and promptly licked it from base to tip.

Jack spluttered. ”The fuck’s wrong with you.”

”Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He looked up, for the briefest of moments, but it was enough. Kent crossed the couple of feet between them, placed a hand on Jack’s biceps, slid it down to twine their fingers together. When he looked back up, a small smile was protruding through the irritation from seconds before. With a smile back, Kent leaned up to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It stayed soft for maybe a second. Maybe less. Kent couldn’t tell and didn’t fucking care. Jack’s free arm slid around his shoulders, pulled him in closer, and Kent felt something inside of him melt. The hand not holding Jack’s moved to his waist, squeezed, then down to that glorious ass. That he could touch whenever he fucking wanted.

A soft sound made its way into Kent’s mouth, followed by a nip to his bottom lip. Kent grinned, as much as Jack’s mouth allowed him to, gave his ass a last quick squeeze before moving his hand up his front to push him backwards, step by step, until Jack’s back hit something firm. His hand went back to Jack’s waist, slipped under his shirt to massage the soft skin there, earning himself another soft moan and warm hands moving onto his cheeks. Fingers tangling into his hair, pulled ever so gently. Kent moaned, more theatrical than anything real, but Jack got the memo, pulled a little again. Every inch of Kent’s body was on fire, as it always was when pressed so close to Jack’s, hard and getting there, both of them, and Kent was just about to slide to his knees, heart high in his throat, when a noise behind him made them jump apart.

A look at Jack’s eyes told him everything he knew.

”Sorry ’bout the intrusion, boys,” Bad Bob Zimmermann, Jack’s father, hockey legend of the twentieth century, said as he walked towards them. ”Don’t mind me, if I can just grab the shopping list, I’ll be out of your hair.” While he talked, he did just that, gave his son and the boy who had been seconds away from sucking him off a kind smile and left the kitchen, whistling all the while. Neither Kent nor Jack took their eyes off him before the kitchen door was once more closed.

It took Kent two tries. ”The fuck just happened.”

Jack’s eyes were still on the door, wide and impossibly blue. ”Je sais pas, Kenny. I have no idea.”

“Well, then.” Kent pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Wanna head upstairs?”

Something flickered across Jack’s face, confusion, lust, fear, but it all drowned as the door shut behind them and Kent was in his lap, pressing him into the mattress in a way that hardly felt new anymore. There was confidence in their touches now, that hint of desperation from the first time, too. Watered down, but still there, simmering just underneath.

And Kent could die in it. _Lived_ in it.

A soft moan filled the air, mixed with the rustling of fabric and the slide of skin on skin.

They’d stopped caring if anyone heard them. The house was big enough anyway.

A hand tugged at Kent’s shorts. ”Off.”

As if he had to ask.

Even that had become practised, the undressing. No more elbows in the face, or clothes that got stuck, or something knocked over and crashing to the floor. Now, it was just the clothes, landing neatly to be found later. Much later.

As if Kent would ever get tired of seeing Jack beneath him, naked and flushed and spread out. So fucking beautiful it took his breath away. That, at least, hadn’t changed. Probably never would.

A yelp tore through the air as Jack rolled them over, settled on top of him with his tongue in his mouth, and the yelp became a hum, fingers tangled in Jack’s hair and moving down, tracing every birthmark and scar and stretch mark. Every inch of skin.

The mouth on his moved to his jaw, bit softly, trailed down his neck. Light kisses that were never enough to leave even the slightest hint of a mark, and Kent sighed, moved his hands back to Jack’s hair and tugged, pulled him up for another proper kiss. Waited until Jack melted into him to flip them over again, lick the half-hearted sound of protest out of Jack’s mouth.

After a moment, he pulled back, ran a hand down Jack’s chest, picked at the hair there until Jack let out a whine. The eyes staring up at him were dark, the blue only a small ring around the pupils. His entire face was flushed, down the chest, the most beautiful fucking thing Kent had ever seen, and so he kissed down, pressed his lips to Jack’s neck, his jaw. Sucked when Jack tensed at a spot where his ear met his jaw, earned himself a long moan and Jack’s hands tensing on his back. His nails dug down, just on the right side of painful, and Kent bit before moving further down, nibbling at the soft skin of Jack’s Adam’s apple and sucking a mark onto his collarbone.

With his heart in his throat, he moved down further, kissed Jack’s chest and abs with hands softly caressing his thighs. Trembling beneath his touch. Kent grinned, moved down the trail of hair from Jack’s navel. Above him, Jack tensed, but didn’t protest. Instead, he weaved the fingers of one hand through Kent’s hair and gripped, not tight enough to cause pain, but tight enough for all thought to fly out Kent’s head. He was leaking already, flushed in a way that made Kent’s mouth water. Planting a quick kiss on the inner part of Jack’s thigh, a twitch just off right of his head, Kent moved to lick up the base of him. Salty, new but in no way deterrent.

Opening his mouth a little further, he brought the head into his mouth, nearly pulled back when Jack’s hips bucked up against him. He swore, something in French, but Kent didn’t care. With a firm grip on Jack’s thighs, he went down further, tried not to grimace at the slight strain in his jaw or the fingers tightening. Instead, he focused on the task, pulled back up before moving down a little further, tried to establish some sort of rhythm without falling off or going down too deep. Above him, Jack moaned, loud and filthy. Encouragement enough.

Eventually, with a little stretch and too much spit, Jack hit the back of Kent’s throat, forced another buckle of his hips that had Kent nearly gag. He forced it down, continued, painfully hard himself and somehow edging closer. There was saliva in the corner of his mouth, saliva or pre-come or both, and the strain in his jaw was nearing painful, but Jack was a whining mess beneath him, flushed and loud and shaking.

If he could skate through the pain, he could fuck through it, too.

It was difficult to smile with a cock in his mouth, nearly impossible, and so Kent didn’t try, just forced Jack further down, pressed his lips closer, moved his head just a little faster. Fingers tightened in his hair, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he was going to come like that. Untouched. If it was even possible. Before he could continue the thought further, Jack’s breath hitched above him, and his grip on Kent’s hair tightened to the almost unbearable. A split-second was all he got before liquid filled his mouth.

Kent pulled off in surprise, coughed hard before managing to swallow what little was still in his mouth. The rest, he could feel on his chin, a bit on his chest, warm and sticky. Filthy. Before he got the chance to wipe it off, Jack was on him, flipped them over, got his mouth on Kent, wiped his mind clean before it could even begin to catch up. The cry that tore its way out his mouth was embarrassing, but the feeling drowned in the rhythm, the way he hit the back of Jack’s throat after only a couple of seconds.

If Jack’s hand had been good, his mouth was going to be what killed him. And Kent would show up to the gates of Hell with a smile.

When he came, an embarrassingly short time later, it was with a loud cry and the sheets of the bed pulled almost entirely off. Jack’s head continuing its movements. 

When he could finally open his eyes without seeing spots, his neck was aching, and Jack was lying next to him, breathing almost as hard and wiping the last of his come from around his mouth.

”You’re - ” Kent tried, swallowed, took another deep breath before trying again. ”Jesus fucking Christ, Zimms. You’re fucking amazing, y’know that?”

Jack laughed, soft, amused, enough for Kent’s heart to threaten to spill out of this throat.

Against the dark blue pillow, Jack’s flush was painfully obvious. Apart from Jack himself, Kent was probably the only person in the world who knew that happened. How flushed he got. How his eyes closed, and his breaths evened out. The look of raw satisfaction on his face. Kent didn’t even bother trying to smooth down the grin that forced to break his face in two.

He was so fucking in love with him it fucking _hurt_.

And he was going to miss him. The thought hit out of the blue, quickly invaded every bit of Kent’s conscience, as it always did when he wasn’t quick enough to suppress it. He was going to miss him with every inch of his body, every inch of his soul, could already feel the echo of a longing not yet there. And there wasn’t a single fucking thing he could do to prevent it. He’d worked towards the NHL for years. So had Jack. The best fucking day of his life.

”What are we going to do, Kenny?”

Perhaps he was that easy to read. Or they were just that in sync.

”About what?” he asked anyway.

Jack didn’t answer, long enough for Kent to look over to see if he’d fallen asleep. Blue eyes didn’t meet his. Stayed on the ceiling.

“The draft.”

”We’ll walk up the stage, smile a lot, shake some hands, go back down. And then we’ll play. Probably won’t be much different from the Q.”

_Except we won’t be together._

”It will be different,” Jack whispered. ”It will all be so fucking different.”

His voice broke, and Kent’s arm twitched, nearly reached out to caress his back. Rub his shoulder. He folded it across himself instead. ”We’ll be fine, Zimms. We’re good, you know that. We’re so fucking good they won’t be able to fucking touch us. And one of us’ll be traded one day, just you wait.” He smiled, hoped it was encouraging. ”We’ll be fucking invincible.”

”Invincible,” Jack whispered.

”We’ll be the best they’ve ever fucking seen, Zimms. Just you wait.”

Again no answer. When Kent looked over, Jack’s eyes had closed and his breathing deepened.

If he was faking it, he was doing a good fucking job.

-/ \\-

Kent wasn’t a person who dreamed. When he was awake, sure, but never while sleeping. How he knew he was dreaming now wasn’t clear, but knew he did.

They were holding each other. There was no light, no sounds, no smells, nothing except strong arms around him and soft hair tickling his neck. Muscles beneath his hands. There was no way he could know it was Jack in his arms, and no way he could deny it.

The darkness held no room for motion, none for breathing. Perhaps they were statues, eternally embracing each other in the dark. Perhaps they were one being, stuck in eternal slumber in a cave from whence they’d never leave. Hiding where they’d never be disturbed and brought to the light of day by those never able to understand.

And then the impossible; a movement. Undetectable at first, easy to miss at second, undeniable at third. A shaking, gentle and violent, pain and pleasure. In his arms, Jack was trembling. Only then did Kent notice the heat. It hadn’t been there before, he was ready to swear, but then again, what was before? The heat was there, suddenly as undeniable as Jack trembling, in his hands, in his arms, his entire body, burning into Jack, warm enough to melt.

Cold seeped through Kent’s body. Melt. Jack was melting.

With a cry forcing itself up his body, Kent tore his arms away, but his body was not his, or it did not obey his commands for he stayed where he was, wrapped around Jack as he was around him, burning through layers of skin until he could feel the raw muscle against him, blood flowing down their still entwined bodies. A cold hardness beneath that sent a wave of nausea through Kent. 

Bones.

The darkness was complete, he couldn’t see the destruction, the demolition of the man he loved, the body he’d learned to navigate as his own, couldn’t smell the burning flesh, but he could _feel_. Every drop of blood and melted sinew and the scream in the chest that was not his and which could not be spilled. Or could not be heard. Kent didn’t know.

As they were destroyed – for once Jack was gone, he would fall, nothing would be to keep him standing once he was gone, he would fall and crack into a thousand pieces on the cold, marble floor – he screamed.

The silence was deafening, wove itself through the scream as the last in his arms melted away, and he was embracing air, and the blood or tears on his face were turning to ice, threatening to but never actually tearing up the flesh. And even then he kept screaming, screamed until he felt himself fall, then screamed louder, until his throat threatened to give out and his lungs burned.

And still no sounds in the darkness.

For what felt like an eternity and a second both, he fell. Before he hit the floor, just before he would finally break, he realised it was not marble that met him but ice, cold and merciless and entirely detached from what broke on its skin.

His eyes flew open, a scream still strangled in his throat. Somewhere in his chest, his heart was beating a mile a minute, but he didn’t move. Even his breathing was normal. Somehow.

It took a couple of breaths before he was fully back to consciousness. Underneath him was a bed, around him the dimness of an early morning. Outside, the birds were chirping. He was warm, and so was the spot in the bed next to him. Empty. On the other side of the room was a figure, unmistakably -

”Zimms?”

The sound died in his throat, and he tried again. Jack turned his head. A second later, something that suspiciously looked like a training bag landed on the bed, only inches from Kent who looked down at it, then back up at Jack. ”Jesus fucking Christ, Zimms, are ya fucking serious? You get withdrawal symptoms if you’re not on ice for a week or something?” He cleared his throat, hated how raw it felt. “Or is there some weird ice-mermaid shit you haven’t told me about?”

”We can’t allow ourselves to get out of shape,” Jack said, monotone, fucking robot - “If we’re gonna make it through training camps, we - ”

”Zimms,” Kent interrupted, uncurled his fingers from the sheets. ”We’re on fucking break. School’s out, there’s no more training, we’re fucking _done_ \- for fuck’s sake, we’re Memorial Cup champions!”

”But we have to be ready!”

His jaw was set. Had to be. Always fucking was.

And Kent wasn’t going to win this. ”Fine. Two hours, nothing more. And you owe me, like, three blowjobs after this.”

Jack made a sound and zipped the bag in front of him with a harsh move of his arm. ”It’ll be your own fault if you’re not picked in the first round.”

”There’s no fucking way I’m not going in the top three and you fucking know it. And so are you,” Kent added, resisted the urge to just go back to bed and let Jack kill himself on the fucking ice. It was too fucking early to play nursemaid. ”A couple training sessions no one’ll know about won’t change a fucking thing. You know that, right?”

Jack bit his lip.

With a quiet swear, Kent got out of bed. ”Zimms, that’s fucking ridiculous.” He reached Jack, automatically held out an arm, only for it to be slapped away. It hurt, more than Kent would ever fucking admit, and for a second he seriously considered hitting Jack back.

”Are you coming or not? ’cause I’m leaving now.”

But maybe it was the look on his eyes, or the dream he couldn’t quite remember anymore.

” … I’m coming.”

Relief. Or just his shoulders slumping from their position around his ears.

”But it won’t change anything,” Kent added. ”There’s nothing you can do. Either of us.”

The shoulders went back up, followed by the bag. Before Kent could say any more, Jack walked out. With a repressed sigh and a deep breath, Kent followed. Because he always fucking did.

Before they left, he left a note next to the landline, grabbed a couple of protein bars from the kitchen. Jack didn’t seem like he was going to think about food any time soon.

The rink wasn’t far away, probably planned on Bad Bob’s part, and the door opened for them without resistance despite no one being in the lobby. Or anywhere else in the building.

Waving the Zimmermann name around never hurt, it seemed.

Jack was on the ice before he could think the thought to end.

”I’ll get the pucks,” Kent said. He didn’t wait to see if Jack heard him before walking towards the supply closets.

It was like being in the Q again.

Kent nearly laughed out loud. Only a few weeks, and yet there he was, thinking of the Q as if decades had passed. Perhaps they might as well have.

No two people could be that coordinated unless they were fucking, internet journalist had theorised about their one-timer. Once upon a time. And Kent had wished it was true.

They hadn’t made a single fucking one-timer since they started hooking up.

Still, the pucks went in, flew from his stick to Jack’s and onwards, like they always had.

And like they wouldn’t for a long, long time. However long it took for one or both of them to be traded.

Kent passed the puck at his feet after a quick glance around. Timing, power, distance. Same recipe even when they were alone.

The puck landed perfectly in front of Jack’s stick, milliseconds before it was brought to the ice, and flew through the air. For a second, it almost looked they’d got it.

Couple of inches at most. A glance at Jack revealed a set jaw, something that wasn’t tears in his eyes. Anger, perhaps. Or the deep frown that seemed to be on Jack’s forehead at any time they weren’t fucking.

”One more time.”

It wasn’t a plea. Not even a question.

And even less of a question that Kent would comply, even if the clock had passed the two hours what felt ages ago already.

”The Aces won’t know what hit ’em when you arrive.”

”Bet they won’t,” Jack replied, almost too soft for Kent to hear. ”You ready?”

”Always fucking am, Zimms.”

And the puck was back in motion.

-/ \\-

Time passed, days after days gone in hazes of ice and orgasms and hours lying in the grass or a hammock, kissing because they could, waiting because they could do nothing else.

Suddenly, only a week was left. The realisation stole the breath from Kent’s lungs until Jack’s mouth was on his, turned the breathlessness into pleasure.

Six days, and they ate strawberries and kissed in the grass.

Five days, and Bob and Alicia made dinner. They played video games until midnight, the last few games cuddled up on the couch laughing at Bob who still thought he could beat his wife.

Four days, and they were at the rink again. Twice. Kent found an empty bottle of pills underneath an empty packet of tampons in the bathroom. Alicia was turning fifty in a couple of months.

Three days, and Jack disappeared for two hours. Kent found him half the town over, having run until his legs gave out and completely lost track of time, brought him home. Promised not to tell Bob and Alicia.

Two days, and reality was getting too fucking close. Their bubble was going to burst. Kent wanted to cry and jump up and down at the same time.

”You and me against the world,” he toasted, sitting on a folding chair on the porch with a glass of red wine in one hand and Jack less than two feet away. He could smell him. He was going to miss that smell like it had been ripped from his own body.

Jack knocked their glasses together with a sound much louder than planned according to the look on his face, not unlike when they’d first started kissing without music blaring around them. Like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

Kent snorted.

”What?”

Shaking his head, he took another sip of wine. ”This is so fucking good, Zimms, where do your parents get this shit?”

Jack shrugged. ”Friends, I think. People always bring stuff when they visit.”

”We should do that.”

”What do you mean?”

”When we’re on the same team again. When we have people over, they should bring stuff, and we’ll bring some when we visit them. Like, our teammates and their wives and shit.”

The grip on Jack’s glass tightened. ”We won’t live together.”

Kent frowned. ”Why not?”

”People would suspect things,” Jack said, voice growing quiet. He took another, larger sip of the wine, then one more.

”We’ll be fucking legends by then. They won’t be able to say a fucking thing.”

Jack finished his glass, reached for the bottle to fill up his glass again.

A pang of irritation crept through Kent. ”Don’t sweat it, Zimms. We’ll be fucking untouchable. No one’ll be able to say shit.”

”… if you say so.”

”’course I say so. It’ll take a few years, sure, but we’ll get there. Trust me.”

Jack nodded. The tips of his mouth curved up, small enough that only Kent would notice. No one else could read Jack like he could.

”I trust you,” he said, emptied his glass once again.

This time, Kent reached for the bottle to pour him some more. He didn’t see the way Jack’s hand was fisted into the fabric of his jeans, hard enough that the knuckled had gone white. If he did, it wasn’t any of his business. Not everything was.

The sun set, turned the sky so red the thought of the sun burning out or exploding wasn’t far away. Perhaps they only had eight minutes left to live. Less.

Jack’s hand touched his, and Kent curled them together. Squeezed. For a long moment, they sat like that, hands together above the empty wine bottle, staring at the burning sky.

”Wanna go inside?” one asked, and the other nodded.

The door closed quietly behind them despite of the harsh movement with which it was shut, and within a minute, Kent found himself pushed against the wall in Jack’s bedroom. The door was half-ajar, but Bob and Alicia had left for a charity dinner several hours ago, wouldn’t be back until some time after midnight. If then.

Not that Kent was thinking of Bob and Alicia, not with Jack half-hard against his thigh and moaning into his mouth. Not with him pressing them as close as they could possible be and tearing off their shirts at the same time.

”Fuck, Zimms,” Kent whispered between kisses. If he was ever going to get used to Jack’s mouth, it would be a long time away. The rest of their fucking lives.

”Shut up,” Jack groaned and grabbed at Kent’s thighs like they were all that kept him tied to earth.

Kent didn’t mind that. He didn’t mind it one fucking bit.

With a hint of regret, he moved his hands from Jack’s ass to his pecs and pushed him back, further and further until the back of his knees hit the bed. With one last push, Jack was sent sprawling, landed on his ass and elbows with his thighs spread in a way that made the last hint of thought leave Kent’s mind, and a look on his face that wouldn’t have been out of place on the ice. If someone was just itching for a fight, and he was going to give them everything they wanted.

And Kent wanted.

Before the thought came to an end, Jack’s hand was on his neck, and he was pulled down on top of him. Their mouths crushed together in a way that should’ve been awkward, but they’d kissed so much it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did, and Kent never wanted it to end, wanted to stay in a moment just short of perfect.

The rest of their clothes ended up on the floor, or on the bed, or in the fucking ocean, Kent couldn’t fucking care less, wasn’t about to look away from Jack spread out underneath him, flushed and beautiful and completely and utterly _his_.

”Want you,” he mumbled into their kiss. ”Want you so fucking much.”

Jack gasped, a soft sound that made Kent twitch almost violently.

”Fuck, Kenny,” he whispered, followed by a string of words in French that Kent’s sex-numbed brain barely even registered.

They kissed again, as if devouring each other was something they could do if they just tried hard enough. Jack’s fingers were in his hair, trembling but pulling so hard it nearly hurt, legs wrapped around his waist, not enough to trap him but enough for Kent’s brain to shortcut.

He wanted inside of him.

”Crîsse de calisse,” Jack gasped. His breath was hot against Kent’s shoulder, coming out so fast and ragged it was almost enough to send Kent over the edge. “Ouais. Tiroir - “

Another roll, closer to his ass this time, gave another response, another babbling in French, but Kent cut him off with a kiss, tried to drown out the embarrassment from having said it out loud. The pure and untamed excitement of Jack being prepared. Probably thought of that, of _him_.

There was no way to look without breaking the kiss, so Kent did. Before Jack had the chance to open his eyes – he couldn’t take that, not yet - Kent pulled his shorts down and wrapped a hand around him, stroked until Jack’s head fell backwards. His hands moved to Kent’s hips, gripped just on the right side of painful. A drowning man at sea.

Still pumping, Kent opened the bedside table drawer with his left hand, the one beneath when he found nothing in the first. And there it was. A small bottle Kent wouldn’t have recognised had it not been for the porn he felt ashamed just thinking about, a couple of condoms. He pulled the bottle out and closed the drawer, finally withdrawing his hand from Jack who whined at the sudden lack of contact. When he opened his eyes, a moment later still, and Kent prided himself on that, they widened. Pupils, too, almost eclipsing the slight hints of blue that were left. On the mattress, only half-soaked by their sweat, his legs spread further. He looked so indecent Kent felt the ridiculous urge to cross himself.

What would Sister Frances think of him now.

”Fuck Zimms,” he breathed, resisted the urge to rub at his left wrist. ”You’re so fucking beautiful, y’know that?”

He leaned down to kiss him, but Jack turned his head. Closed his eyes. ”Just do it.”

Barely above a breath, and if there had been any doubt in Kent’s mind, it was gone.

With shaking hands, he tore off the cap of the small bottle, squeezed a generous amount of liquid onto his fingers. More than a little dripped onto the sheets, but it could be washed out. Would need to be. His right hand settled on Jack’s thigh, pushed it up just a little. The other followed shortly, spread him wide and open, and Kent had to catch himself before moving in, circling him with shaking hands before pressing the tip of a finger inside. Prayed porn had been at least somewhat close to reality.

The fit was tight, much tighter than he’d ever thought possible – much tighter than porn made it look - and enough to steal the breath from his lungs. From Jack’s, too. Still, he didn’t flinch or push him off, and so Kent started to move. The moan that escaped Jack was unbelievable, almost profane, hit like thunder in Kent’s spine and spread to the finger inside of him. It didn’t take long before he added another, almost pulling back out at the sight of Jack’s face twisting in what was either pleasure or pain. Probably pain, but before he could go back to one, Jack’s breath hitched.

”Ârrete pas.”

Gritted teeth, but for what felt like the hundredth time, Kent felt like he could come from the sounds alone. He bit his lip and moved his fingers, build up what felt like a rhythm. Eventually, _finally_ , Jack rolled his hips down on his fingers, unwillingly or not, it didn’t fucking matter. Kent added a third finger, heard Jack cry out and continued, gently until Jack eased into it, head rolled back and a dark flush going down his chest. He was so beautiful Kent could cry. If he’d been that much of a fucking faggot.

” - you.”

”What?”

”’ want you,” Jack repeated, the last word cut off by a moan that went straight to Kent’s dick.

” _Fuck_ ,” Kent whispered, unable to be silent and unable to find words. It didn’t fit the room, didn’t fit the fucking atmosphere, but Kent was too far gone to care. He pulled out his fingers to a sound that could almost be called a whine, had Jack been the kind of person who whined.

And that was it.

Kent looked around for the bottle of lube, found it half-open and leaking a few inches off of him, pressed some onto his fingers and himself and Jack. The bottle fell to the floor, but Kent didn’t hear it. In fact, he didn’t hear anything, or see anything, or feel any-fucking-thing other than Jack around him as he pushed inside. Little warning, and Jack screamed, and it was tight and _warm_ , and Kent could die. Almost thought he would.

But didn’t. Instead, he opened his eyes, felt a stab of worry at the way Jack’s was screwed shut in concentration. Pain. Pleasure. A breath of air left his nose as Kent pushed further in, willing himself not to come as he did.

He was so fucking tight it threatened to send Kent’s brain melting out his ears.

Finally, to a breath of relief from both of them, their hips met.

”Zimms, you feel so fucking - ”

”Move.”

Not even a question. Not even close.

Still, as always, Kent complied, pulled himself out as slowly as he’d pushed in before thrusting back inside. When Jack’s back arched, he nearly fell off him, they nearly fell off the bed both, but somehow they didn’t. Somehow he wasn’t able to even begin to figure out.

When the lines on Jack’s forehead began to smooth out, and it felt like there was finally enough space inside of him, Kent didn’t hesitate. Forcing Jack’s legs further back, he quickened his pace, rolled his eyes back at the angle. Beneath him, Jack cried out, forced his nails down Kent’s back so hard he’d leave bruises, draw blood, _come_ , but there was no liquid between them, only another cry as Kent moved in again. New sounds filled the air, French, English, words, swears, babbling, the unmistakable and maddening sound of skin against skin. They were moving together, as they did on the ice, exactly as they did on the fucking ice, except everything was different, and everything was the same, and surely, _surely_ , nothing could be better than this.

Kent came like a punch, both too fast and much later than he thought he’d be able to last, and he felt his heart give out. Or something that wasn’t too far off. All feeling disappeared, was drowned out completely by an intensity like nothing he’d ever felt, couldn’t imagine ever feeling again, and he was gone. Jack followed suit not long after, somewhere far away, grasping at the sheets and at Kent’s back.

In that moment, the perfect stillness, they were one being. Melted together like candle wax, creating something entirely new.

And then it was over.

With the last bit of strength left in his muscles, Kent pulled out, flopped down next to a still unmoving Jack. They were both breathing hard, still in complete unison, and Kent knew with every atom in his being that they were going to be alright. They were going to be just fucking fine.

He looked to the side where Jack was lying with his eyes closed, an expression that could only be described as pure bliss on his face, and Kent’s heart soared at the sight, threatened to spill out of his throat or choke him in its attempt. Without thinking, there was no room for thought, no space for it, no need, he rolled onto his side and cupped Jack’s cheek, felt the beginning stubble, the heat. Jack’s eyes blinked open, moved to him, and for a long moment, they just lay there, looked into each other’s eyes. Then, Kent moved forward, pressed a slow, sweet kiss on Jack’s lips. He pulled back, only to kiss Jack’s closed eyelids as well. His forehead. His nose. His mouth once more.

”I love you,” he whispered, pressed their foreheads together.

”No, you don’t.”

The words were soft, little different from Kent’s, but enough to turn the fading pleasure in the pit of his stomach into a gaping, black hole that threatened to pull everything else into it. Destroy him from the inside. He opened his mouth to protest, to repeat himself until Jack understood, but Jack’s mouth was on his before any words could be formed and shared.

And he kissed back, swallowed down whatever he felt. Perhaps it was better that way.

Two more days.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, woke up sticky and hard, and Kent eased himself into Jack once more, fucked him until he screamed. Drowned out words that had to wait.

-/ \\-

At least they’d gotten the address right.

Kent glanced to his right as they turned the corner on the otherwise quiet street, and the first dull sounds of a bass made itself known. Jack was staring right ahead, a slight line of worry already forming on his forehead that only deepened when Kent squeezed his hand. It only took a couple more steps before the warm and now slightly clammy hand slid out from his grip and into the pockets of his jeans.

Something tight coiled in Kent’s stomach, and he grabbed the front of Jack’s shirt, pushed him into the nearest wall. A small sound of surprise escaped Jack, but it quickly disappeared as he melted into the kiss. When Kent pulled back, he even returned the grin. Their hands didn’t touch again.

The door was open when they arrived, blared out music in a way that would inevitably get the cops called, but not before midnight. No neighbours called before midnight, not in as hockey town where even the cops asked for autographs. Or pictures.

”Holy shit, look who’s here!”

A smirk made its way onto Kent’s face before Channer even came into view. To his right, both too close and too fucking far away, Jack froze.

”I did _not_ think you guys’d be here,” Channer continued and pulled Kent into a quick hug, slapped his bag a little harder than usual. Drunk or getting there.

”’course we would. You really think we’d miss the last party of the fucking Q?”

Above Channer’s shoulder, Jack’s eyes were on him, wide in what was either terror or worry.

This was a bad idea, they said.

We’re here now, so make the best of it, Kent’s eyes shot back.

”No one’s heard a fucking word from you,” Channer said. ”You guys been camping out in an ice rink somewhere? Or does Bad Bob have some secret fucking training camp?”

Kent glanced to Jack again. If only Channer knew how close he was to the truth. ”We’ve just been chilling. Trynna stay off the news and shit.”

”Not reading ’em or not being on ’em?”

Kent smirked. ”Both.”

Channer laughed, loud and, yep, definitely drunk. Kent made a mental note to sit close to him during the draft. Or at least close enough to the stage to see him stumble through the acceptance of whatever team chose him with a hangover the size of his ego.

”Well, no fucking journos here so don’t fucking worry ’bout that!” Channer elbowed Jack. ”Make some fucking mistakes tonight, bro. Last fucking chance you’ll get!”

Jack nodded, looked more like he was going to throw up than fuck some girl in a corner. Channer, however, didn’t seem to notice, just stuck a large, red solo cup in his hand and walked off. Within seconds, he’d stumbled upon a girl with tits the size of her own head. Kent counted the seconds before he got his hands on them.

Not even fucking thirty.

When he turned to Jack, joke already on his tongue, he was halfway into his cup.

”Shit, save some for the rest of us.”

Jack only glanced up. ”Find your own.”

Kent didn’t huff, but it was a near fucking thing. ”Be that way.”

If Jack said anything back, it was lost in the music. Kent shrugged and set towards one of the other rooms, grabbed a cup off a small table before entering and nearly choking when the liquid hit the back of his throat.

Strong shit. Certainly not the shitty piss they usually served. For some reason, Vixy, the weird-ass goalie from his first year, popped into his head. He’d be proud, that was for fucking sure.

There was a ping pong table in the basement. Downing the rest of his cup, Kent made his way over. He’d find Jack again later. See if he was more sociable then.

”Y’all need a second?”

A guy in a muscle tee frowned, but before he could say anything, one of the two girls on the other side of the table grinned something in French. And so Kent found himself next to the guy, throwing a ping pong ball in the far right corner cup, just by the French-speaking girl who swore loudly. For a second, Kent almost felt bad. Then he remembered the amount of cups she’d gotten him to drink. Bitch deserved it.

”Someone’s good at swallowing,” he whispered to the guy next to him who immediately broke into a grin.

”You should try her.”

A shiver went down Kent’s spine. The music around them was echoing through his bones, yet the guy’s voice was deep enough to be heard through it.

”Maybe I will.”

They won, by a cup’s margin, and Kent immediately declared the next match a winner’s duel. The guy agreed, slapped him hard on the back before walking to where the girls had just been.

The duel took six minute. Not Kent’s record for a win, but pretty fucking close.

”Better luck next time!” he yelled above the music. The guy smiled back, having heard none of it, but grabbed Kent’s hand with his own larger and much warmer anyway. For a brief moment, Kent wondered what it would feel like around him.

The thought was pushed out of his mind by a punch to his bicep, followed by a grin when Kent tried and failed not to grimace. Despite the pain, his own grin was getting a little too wide.

”Hey, didja see where that girl went? The tall, Native one?”

The guy’s grin was gone as quickly as it had come. Good.

”Saw her heading upstairs,” he said, walked off, left Kent alone on the sticky, wooden floor.

Taking off his cap, he ran his hand through his hair, turned and walked to the stairs, hummed along to the melody playing. Miley Cyrus wasn’t his thing, but he wasn’t complaining about catchy.

”Hey, y’seen Zimms?” he asked a D-man walking past. The guy frowned before shouting something in French and pointing in the direction of what Kent vaguely remembered as the dining room.

And there he was, sitting on a chair with a girl half in his lap – the _bitch_ \- listening obviously half-heartedly as he downed whatever shit was in his cup. Flushed already. Kent took a sip of his own drink before walking over, smiled sweetly at the girl and sat himself down on the table inches from Jack. Not quite in his lap. Not yet.

The girl looked at him. He looked back.

”Madeleine,” she finally said, reached out a hand. Kent shook it, only squeezing her fingers a little bit harder than he had to. It was barely visible on her face. Good at hiding shit, Kent thought. Probably good at faking it, too.

”What were ya talking about?”

Madeleine opened her mouth but was drowned out by a loud whoop from the adjoining room. A quick glance revealed a girl in Moully’s lap, grinding down with all her might to the music as half a dozen spectators cheered her on. Kent couldn’t see if the look on Moully’s face was a boy experiencing his first orgasm or someone who’d leave more traumatised than when he’d arrived.

Jack mumbled something into his cup before downing the rest. Without missing a beat, he reached out for Kent’s. Madeleine opened her mouth but didn’t say anything. Neither did Kent. Instead, he gave her a large smile and moved his arm to rest on Jack’s shoulder. Only to have it pushed away.

It was impossible to hear over the music if Madeleine made some kind of sound in surprise, but when Kent glanced over, anger burning just beneath his skin, refusing to let even the slightest hint show, her mouth was open and her eyes wide. He glared, dared her to say something, but she didn’t.

Only when she walked away with an excuse drowned out by the music, did Kent turn to Jack. ”The fuck d’ya think you’re doing?”

Jack didn’t answer.

”I said, the fuck d’ya think you’re doing?”

A glance up. Nothing more.

Kent knocked their knees together, a little harder than he had to. ”You just wanna sit there and be angry?”

”Fuck off.”

”Like hell am I gonna do that, and you know it.”

Jack looked away. A roll of his head, nothing more. ”Don’ need y’here.”

They were already close, had to be, but Kent leaned in even closer. ”Yet here I fucking am!”

He might as well have electrocuted him as fast as Jack pulled back.

”You angry that I dragged you here? What, didja wanna use our last night on the ice, too?”

Jack didn’t answer, just took another long gulp of his drink. The hand holding the cup was shaking.

”Like there’s any-fucking-thing y’can do before the draft – as I’ve fucking well told ya al- ”

”Just leave me the fuck alone!”

On the other side of the room, a couple of heads turned, but Kent didn’t see them. Jack had stood up, eyes wide and hands curled into fists so tight the knuckles were shite. For a long second, Kent thought he was going to hit him.

For even longer, he wished he would.

”Fine,” he said instead, stood as well. ”I’ll leave. Good fucking luck getting home on your own.”

With that, he turned and walked out the room. Behind him, the sound of a body hitting a couch was barely audible but enough to tell what Jack would be doing for the rest of the night.

Not that Kent cared. Not that he _fucking_ cared.

The kitchen was almost empty, only a few guys he didn’t bother recognising and a couple getting to second base on the counter. Nothing new. Kent slid past the couple with all of his three years of expertise, nearly bumped into the guy. Some beer hit the carpet, but they barely even noticed him, not with the girl’s skirt pushed almost to her belly-button.

Kent would always take Jack home. Probably would this time, too, he thought with a grim taste in the back of his throat. Within a couple of hours, Jack would find him. Or, more likely, someone would help him over, ask Kent to take him home. And Kent would. Because he always did.

At least the couple had moved the alcohol before getting it on. Kent grabbed the nearest bottle and poured some into his now empty cup. A slight sip nearly made him cough. What he’d gotten earlier was definitely watered down, then.

He took another sip. Wouldn’t matter.

*

How he got to kiss the girl, he wasn’t sure. One moment he’d been getting increasingly drunker in a corner somewhere, the next a gorgeous chick with considerable biceps and short, dark hair had her tongue in his mouth and was rolling her hips down on his thigh. Her fingers were in his hair, and she tasted of beer and something sweet that Kent futilely tried to identify as he kissed her back. His hands were on her upper arms, thumbs massaging at the soft skin there, and he’d quit pretending he wasn’t thinking of someone else even before tongues got involved, but he was kissing her still.

Could be worse, he thought. There was even a small twitch in his trousers as she pulled off. Her mouth was red, beautifully so, he had to admit, and she was breathing hard. He probably was, too.

”There are rooms upstairs,” she said between breaths. Kent nodded. He’d lost count of how many cups he’d downed, but it was enough for a nice swimming effect to have taken place in his head. Nice and fuzzy.

The girl grabbed his hand, and he followed her up, used every hint of concentration he could muster not to stumble and fall. As they got to the landing, he leaned down to kiss her again, earned himself a soft sigh against his lips and an opportunity to slid his hand up her shirt. Her breasts were small, with a firmness that surprised him. He’d always thought breasts were supposed to be soft. Pushing down a little harder, he found a hard knob under the tissue. Breast cancer, for all he knew. Or perfectly normal.

Before he could pull off and ask, she’d moved his hand to the slight definition of her abs, and the thought was gone. They were different from Jack’s, too, softer somehow. Everything about her was softer, even the slight hair that Kent’s fingers followed from her belly button to the waist of her jeans. Further down.

She gasped, pushed him back slightly. ”Room. Maintenant.”

Kent had no time to answer before he was pulled forward by a couple of fists in his shirt and another searing kiss was planted on his lips. No sooner had it ended before he was being dragged off, this time with the end being a half-open door in the hallway that they neared with an alarming pace. Through the haze in his head, the ever-fading fuzziness, he noticed the bile rising in his throat.

”I need to piss.”

The girl stopped, turned, a look of confusion on her face that quickly turned teasing. ”It’s okay if you can’t get it up, there’re other things we can d- ”

”I need to piss,” Kent repeated. Louder. Possibly too loud.

The girl frowned but didn’t press him. Instead, she finally let go of his shirt, and he stumbled, steadied himself before she could laugh. Girls always laughed when you made a fool out of yourself. It was bad when girls laughed, Channer always fucking said that, and Channer had so many girls it had to be true. Good thing she didn’t laugh, he thought as he stumbled towards a door with a flower above the handle. Blue, he noticed. That kind of flower usually wasn’t blue.

When he opened the door, he nearly cursed. Or maybe he actually did curse. It was just his fucking luck that some drunken asshole had decided the bathroom they all had to use was the place to pass out.

”Hey, y’can’t - ”

The words died in his throat as his eyes landed on something just a few inches off the guy’s hand on the floor, almost hidden under the sink. Bright orange, almost empty, the contents spilled between where it had landed and the outstretched hand on the floor. Everything in Kent screamed at him not to look, to walk back out, to _wake the fuck up_ , but still his eyes wandered, from the calloused hand up the muscular forearm, the defined bicep, the strong shoulder hidden under a dark red t-shirt.

Distantly, he felt his legs give out, felt himself land on the floor, but there was no pain. The fuzziness from before was gone, replaced by something he couldn’t name but which was wringing around his lungs, pressing until he couldn’t breathe.

He briefly wondered if this was how Jack felt all the time.

Except not now. Now, he was sprawled on his stomach on light blue tiles in a bathroom that belonged to neither of them with his eyes closed and a blue tint to his lips.

The bottle had been full the night before, before they went out to the terrace. Kent had seen him open it. Now, only a couple of pills remained, trailing from the bottle to Jack’s half-curled hand.

Kent turned, whipped open the toilet bowl just in time to empty the contents of his stomach into it.

”Hey, what’s going - ”

A scream. Loud, probably, not above the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. A girl. Above him, she kept screaming, words now, words that Kent couldn’t catch and didn’t care about. His knuckles were white from holding onto the side of the bowl, his lungs hurt from coughing. There was nothing left in him but slime, thick and mucus-like and more than enough to suffocate him. Shaking, he kicked the door closed, ignored the girl’s protests, breathed in the silence for a long second before turning to the body – to Jack, _his_ Jack – again.

He didn’t want to go over there. The thought tumbled around in his head, deafening. He didn’t want to go over there. _I don’t want to go over there, please don’t make me go over -_

But he did, crawled on hands and knees that threatened to give out with every move until he was only inches from Jack. Fighting back the instincts screaming at him not to, he reached out, placed a hand on Jack’s cheek, bit down a scream that came out a whimper.

Jack was always warm. Like his own personal space heater. Necessary when surviving a Canadian winter, he’d figured. Or an ice rink.

He had never felt him so cold.

The whimper became a sob. Moving his hand to Jack’s shoulder he shook, gently, then firmer, until he was violently rocking Jack’s body. No response. No _fucking_ response. Finally, he let go, sat back, stared at the body in front of him, the body he knew better than his own.

He needed to call - he needed to call someone - 

His phone was in his jeans, buried under a couple of napkins he couldn’t remember stuffing in there, but he got it out only to drop it on the floor. A scream threatened to spill from his throat. He wasn’t sure he had any sound left in him.

With shaking fingers, he went to his contacts, selected the only name he could think of. The phone rang once, twice - 

”Kent, ’s everythin’ alrig - ”

Bad Bob Zimmermann had no time to finish before Kent burst into tears. At last.

Instantly, the hockey legend was wide awake. ”What is it? Is Jack alright? Are you hurt? What - ”

”It’s Jack,” Kent managed between sobs.

”What is it with Jack?”

In the background, someone was asking what was wrong. Alicia. Just thinking about her made Kent sob harder, wrecked his body until he feared he’s break in two.

”What is it with Jack?” Bob repeated, louder this time. Not loud enough.

”His pills, he’s - ” Another sob, heaving.

Bob drew in a breath. When he spoke again, it was with fear emitting from every word. ”How many has he taken?”

”I don’t know, I don’t - ”

”Is he breathing?” Loud. Finally loud enough.

”I don’t know.”

The sound Bad Bob let out then was one Kent would remember on his deathbed. In his nightmares. In the background, Alicia’s voice had grown fervent. He heard the two speak together, unable to make out any words before Alicia’s voice rang through clear.

”Have you called an ambulance?” she asked, voice hard but with an unmistakable shake.

”No, I - ”

”Bob, call a fucking ambulance!”

Kent nearly dropped the phone. Nearly. ”I’m so – I’m so sorry, I’ll - ”

”What’s the address?”

Kent answered, repeated himself twice.

”There’ll be an ambulance. Stay with him, okay? Please, stay with him - ”

”I will, I - ”

”If we’re not there when the ambulance arrives, go with him,” Alicia said. She was moving, Kent could hear, probably dressing herself. ”Don’t you dare fucking leave him!”

How could he ever?

”Promise me.”

Kent did.

She hung up.

The phone fell to the floor with a sound barely audible above the music somehow still fucking playing - 

The door opened again, there were people in the doorway. No more than three or four, all definitely drunk, looking either confused or horrified, and something inside of Kent that had somehow stayed intact finally broke.

”Get out! Get the _fuck out_!”

The crowd took a communal step back, enough for Kent to throw himself across the floor as he had done so many times on the ice and shut the door in their faces. He recognised a couple. Had shared a locker room with them.

Fuck them.

Fuck each and every fucking one of them with a fucking _iron rod_ \- 

He wasn’t sure when he started screaming. Or when the screaming turned to crying. Or when the knocking on the door stopped.

And through it all, Jack was still on the floor, lying quiet and unmoving and blue at the lips. Without thinking, Kent scooted over, gingerly placed his head in his lap, ran a hand through his hair. It was sticky, with alcohol or sweat, Kent couldn’t tell.

He was so fucking cold.

Kent was still crying.

How long they stayed like that, alone in the bathroom with music playing beneath them, Kent couldn’t tell. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been days. All he knew was that Jack didn’t move, not when he touched his cheek or shook his shoulder or kissed him. Not when he cried or shouted, or when the bathroom door opened again and someone let out a blood-curdling scream.

He didn’t even move when the music was pierced by a siren and the shouting of grown men. When several pairs of boots ran up the stairs and the bathroom door was slammed open and Jack was taken from Kent’s arms by men in white and placed on a gurney.

”Famille?”

The man was his Ma’s age, with a hairline that had begun to recede and a not unkind look on his face. Kent shook his head. The man turned to his colleagues, began barking out orders. Jack was lifted from the floor -

”Wait!” Kent swallowed. Stood, somehow. ”Please, I’m his friend. I promised his parents - ”

One nod, and Kent followed, tried to keep up the pace. His legs had fallen asleep. He hadn’t realised.

There were people staring as they left. Teenagers. Kent barely recognised them.

The ambulance was smaller than he was expecting, way too small for the amount of people inside of it and the noise that rang between them. Kent understood none of it, didn’t even try. His hand was on Jack’s, the hand that was still too fucking cold - 

Had it not been for the paramedic to his right, he would’ve fallen as they sat into motion. The woman shrugged him off, and Kent planted his feet firmly on the floor and closed his eyes, tried to match his breathing to the steady beat of Jack’s heart now connected to a machine.

One, two, three, four. Un, deux, trois, quatre. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. One, two, three -

Kent’s eyes flew open. Around him, everything turned into chaos, from the flatline of the machine to the paramedics screaming at each other. Someone cut Jack’s shirt open, revealed the bite marks Kent had left that morning when they made love. The bruises left from their last trip to the ice.

Please, God, let it not be the last, Kent thought, before someone pulled him away from Jack, shouted something Kent couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in his ears. Against his will, he cried out, stretched out an arm to find Jack again, to hold him, but he was pushed back once more. Pushed away.

All he could do was watch as they brought the love of his life back from the dead. Shot him with electricity until his heart was forced back into beating, until his lungs expanded once more, then again and again and again and again.

There were new tears on Kent’s face, trickling down and landing on the floor. He was going to dry out at this point. They’d reach the hospital, and Jack wouldn’t be living nor would he be dead, and Kent would be a puddle of sand on the floor of an ambulance in a hospital in a town Kent hadn’t even heard of growing up, and which his mother probably couldn’t even pronounce, and it wouldn’t matter, because nothing fucking would except the subtle rise and fall of Jack’s chest and the irregular but present beeping of the machine behind his head.

Kent didn’t reach out for his hand again. Later, he’d wish he had and thank the Heavens he hadn’t.

They pulled up at the hospital, and Jack was brought in, Kent following the best he could, through emergency rooms, doctors shouting, small hallways, larger hallways, oxygen masks and nurses and patients pressing themselves against the walls, doors and doors and more fucking doors until one shut in his face.

Startled, he nearly fell, stared into the off-white window-less door from behind which he could hear continued shouting, people running around.

”Cherie?”

Kent turned, met the eyes of a kind-looking older woman. She said something in French, then pointed to his right when he frowned. He followed her finger, found a half-room with white chairs lining the walls. The woman said something again, but was cut off by the ringing of a phone. She pointed to the chairs, then picked up the phone. Kent didn’t move.

Waiting rooms in hospitals had never scared him. Perks of growing up with a nurse for a Ma, he supposed. He’d spent countless hours as a kid in hard plastic chairs surrounded by white walls with odd paintings that would be replaced every other month and people, always new people, always people wringing their hands or crying or comforting each other or checking their phones. And Kent would sit in his corner and colour something, or do his homework. The people didn’t concern him. He wasn’t there for the same reason they were.

(When his grandma passed away, it was in her home, a small apartment not too far from the one Kent shared with his Ma. She hadn’t been able to afford the hospital where her daughter worked. Kent hadn’t seen much of his Ma in those days. He was mostly in the nearby rink, hockey already having become the breath in his lungs and the beat of his heart. They never spoke of it.)

With the memories swirling in his mind, twisting in and out of each other in a mess he feared would never untangle, he walked over, plopped down in one of the plastic chairs. Hard and uncomfortable as always. He barely noticed.

Jack would live, he repeated to himself. He’d live, and everything would be okay. It was all a misunderstanding, a horrible, _horrible_ mistake.

But mistakes could be fixed, and this one would be, and everything would be okay.

When he repeated it, he could almost believe himself.

The clock above the desk on the other side of the hallway pointed at 3 when Alicia and Bob arrived, clothes haphazardly thrown on and expressions of pure panic on their faces. Kent rose from his seat, was about to call out when they raced past him, sparing not a single glance in his direction. Bob threw his hands down on the desk of the receptionist, said something in a voice too loud and too uncontrolled, and for a moment Kent thought he’d seen wrong, that it hadn’t been them at all.

Then he remembered the phone call from earlier and nearly threw up again. Would have, had there been anything left his body could dispose of.

No sound came over his lips as the nurse who had shut the door in his face escorted the two through that very same door with a look that was either pity or compassion on her face. Neither wanted.

Kent fell back into the chair, turned his eyes to the clock once more, watched the seconds tick by. Time shouldn’t continue going after something like this. It should stop, stay until everything was the way it was supposed to be and life could go on.

Yet tick time did, minute after minute after minute, until half an hour had gone by. And one more. And one more, until the seemingly never-ending silence was breached by an unmistakable electronic sound. Still, it took Kent an embarrassingly long time to realise what it was. He snuffed out the sound before Britney could start singing without as much as one look at the screen.

”Parson, thank - where the fuck are you right now?”

Kent closed his eyes, wondered if he could just die there, at that moment.

Molyneux continued with no regard for his lack of answer. ”Just tell me you’re at home. Please.”

The door was still closed, had been for hours. Would be forever. “I’m not.”

”Are you at the hospital?”

Perhaps time did stand still. Somehow. Somewhere. ”Yes.”

”Were you with Zimmermann when he was taken there?”

Perhaps it was all a dream. Just one big, _fucking_ nightmare. ”I found him.”

”What did you say?”

Except it wasn’t. ”I said, I was the one who fucking found him! Passed out in a fucking bathroom, I was the one who had to call his fucking parents! I held his hand when he fucking _died_ , do you understand that?”

There was silence on the other end. When Molyneux spoke again, it was with ice lining his voice, burning and unforgiving. ”Are you done?”

Kent forced himself to take a deep breath. His free hand moved to his knee, picked at the loose thread in his jeans. Tore it clean off.

”Good. Now listen closely, ’cause you’re in deep fucking shit, kid. Zimmermann’s going down, but you can still save yoursel- ”

”The fuck do you mean Zimms is going down?”

Molyneux sighed. Probably pinched his nose, the son of a _bitch_. ”Rumour’s already out. He OD’ed. On what, the press doesn’t know, but you and I both know they’re not going to care. They’ll spin it however they want. Plus, if he’s still in the hospital, even if he wakes up before tonight, he’s out of the draft. No one’ll take someone that unstable.” Kent opened his mouth, but Molyneux continued before a single word left his mouth. ”He’s out, kid, he blew his fucking chances, but you can still make it, so shut your fucking mouth and listen to me!”

And Kent did. Sank back into the chair. At the reception, the lady was sending him an annoyed look. Had he been talking to anyone else, had the situation been literally anything else, he would’ve mouthed her a sorry.

”Leave the hospital,” Molyneux started. ”From the back. Bad Bob and Alicia Zimmermann are already there, everyone knows, so the front is staked out by this point. You’d never be allowed to leave in peace there and no one – no one! - can know you were there, do you understand that? If anyone asks, you weren’t at any party, and you didn’t know anything about Zimmermann’s addiction to whatever the fuck they’re going to say he was taking.”

”Zimms wasn’t addicted,” Kent said, but even in his own ears the words rang hollow.

”You’re going to the draft tonight, and you’ll go first. We both know it, kid, there’s no use denying it. Zimmermann would go first, you second, we’ve all known for months. But he’s out now, so you’re in. And you’re going to go up that stage and you’re going to smile and shake whatever fucking asshole’s hand you have to, got it?”

Kent bit his lip. Tasted blood.

”And you’re not gonna tell a single fucking soul what happened tonight.”

”Fuck you.” A whisper, nothing more, but it was all he had.

”You don’t have to like it. Fuck knows I don’t. But this is what we’ve been working towards, and you can’t let yourself go down over one silly crush who couldn’t keep himself afloat.”

More blood. On his chin now, in his mouth, down his fucking throat - ”The fuck d’you mean by that.”

Molyneux let out a short, humourless laugh. ”We both know what I mean, Parson, do you really want me to say it? If you didn’t want people putting two and two together, you and Zimmermann should’ve kept your hands to yourselves a little better.”

Tears, again, somehow, knives behind his eyes. ”You don’t know _shit_.”

For a second, there was silence. ”You’re right, I don’t. Because if I did, I might let it slip to some tabloid or other – they’d eat it up, don’t you think? ’Parson and Zimmermann – miracle on the ice, drug-addicted faggots off it’. And you know the league. Your career would be in shambles before it even fucking started.”

Kent squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself to breathe through the burn in the back of his throat.

”I know the headline sucks,” Molyneux continued, a hint of laughter so misplaced Kent almost threw up. ”There’s a reason I’m not journalist. But there are plenty of journalists who are much, much better. And it won’t matter what the headlines end up being, anyway, because the articles will say the same, and you and your chances will be ruined. And also, I was wondering, does your mother know about you? I heard you were close, you’ve probably told her about you and Zimmermann, haven’t you? What did she say?”

Kent stayed silent. Squeezed his eyes shut until nothing remained but bright white spots.

”Thought so,” Molyneux said, almost kindly. Almost. ”I’m glad we’re in agreement. Do yourself a favour now - don’t tell a single fucking soul what you just told me. Take this night with you to the grave. And get the fuck out of the hospital.”

With that, he hung up.

And Kent sat there, with the phone to his ear and the last words echoing through his head. Finally, he turned, nearly threw the phone against the wall, only just managed to turn it off and force it down his pocket instead. With a long, shaky exhale, he leaned forward, placed his head between his knees like he’d seen Jack do countless times, forced himself to breathe. In and out, like he’d said just as many times, again and again until Jack relaxed in his arms and blinked the tears away he refused to let Kent see before they could head back inside.

How the fuck hadn’t he noticed there was something wrong? Something seriously fucking wrong right under his fucking nose?

Why hadn’t he just let him break his fucking wrist?

The door was still closed. Behind it, Jack was fighting for his life.

Or his death.

Like Hell was Kent going anywhere. Fuck it all, he was going to stay until the bitter fucking end, whatever that ended up being.

And so he watched the hours tick by, one after the other. Outside, the sun slowly made its way above the horizon, sent the first rays of light through the windows behind him and onto the hard, grey floor. The room grew warmer, but Kent didn’t feel it. The nurse in her little office changed places with another, but Kent didn’t look. They whispered behind their counter, but he didn’t listen.

The lights turned off. The sun grew stronger. The new nurse brought him a glass of water. He tried to thank her, but his throat burned. He smiled instead. She smiled back.

When the water hit his lips, it hurt. It was too cold, too needed, too much all of a sudden and gone in a matter of seconds, leaving not even the last drops left in the plastic folds, yet his throat screamed for more.

He slumped back in the chair. If he could skate through the pain, he could get through this.

A scream lodged in his throat, followed by a new wave of nausea.

Hockey was what had gotten them into this fucking mess to begin with. And Jack wasn’t fighting off some fucker on the ice, wasn’t skating through a check or a puck to the face or a broken ankle.

Jack had almost fucking killed himself.

There were new tears, burning the back of his throat and nose, leaving his body as if taking away the liquid he had dared to allow himself. A punishment, and so he let them fall, down his face, down his chin, onto the already-stained fabric of his jeans. But he wasn’t going to make a sound. Not one single fucking sound.

Eventually, the tears stopped, as suddenly as they’d come, left a new feeling of emptiness like when he’d first gone dry what felt like centuries and seconds ago. If Jack died, that would never go away.

If Jack died, he would never cry again.

And so he waited, once more, with his eyes on the door, on the clock above it, on the nurse behind her desk tapping away like he wasn’t there. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe the white wall had swallowed him up, left nothing but a slight shadow on the ground where it would stay for-

The door opened.

Kent’s vision went as he stood and he nearly fell, only just steadied himself on the chair. It fell to the floor with a loud crash that spun the nurse’s head around to look and, after a long second, Bad Bob’s, too.

He looked older. So much fucking older, with his shirt on backwards, the stubble on his cheeks and throat, the bags under his eyes the size and colour of grapes.

Kent’s throat began to burn again. He looked more like Jack than he’d ever seen him.

How the fuck hadn’t he noticed how sick he was?

”How is he?”

It was barely audible, but enough for Bob to hear.

”He’s alive.”

Kent felt the relief down to the tip of his toes and nearly collapsed again, steadied himself on the wall. A breath left his lips, held in for hours, rank and poisonous.

”The doctors say he will make a full physical recovery,” Bob continued, words slurred in accent and exhaustion both. ”There probably will not be any lasting brain damage.”

Kent exhaled again. His throat burned. ”And the draft?”

The words were dead before they left his mouth, and Bob knew it. With a sigh, he ran a hand over his face, pulled at the old skin. ”He’s out, Kent. It will be a while before he even leaves the hospital, and as for playing … we’re not sure he should do that anymore.”

”You don’t mean that.”

It was too quick, too hard. They were both exhausted.

”I’m sorry,” Bob said, voice strained but truthful. ”But we cannot go through this again.” His voice broke, and before Kent got the chance to say any more, strong arms wrapped around him, pulled him close. His shoulder was wet. He tried not to think too hard about it, just wrapped his own arms awkwardly around Bob’s shaking shoulders. The stench of sweat was almost overwhelming, but Kent was no better.

”Thank you,” Bob whispered. “For finding him. If you had not been there … ” He didn’t finish the sentence, and Kent was thankful. That, he knew, would kill him. So many things could, it felt like.

”I knew.”

Bob pulled away, brow knit with confusion ”Knew what?”

Kent closed his eyes, couldn’t bring himself to look at Bob. ”I knew he had a problem. With the pills. That he was … that he was taking too many. And hiding it from you and Alicia. I knew.”

Silence. Kent wrapped his arms around himself, feeling suddenly cold. Alone.

”Why didn’t you tell us?”

Tightened his hold.

”You should have told us! We could have helped, we could have done something!”

”I know, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Kent’s voice broke. “He said he had it under control. He didn’t want to worry you.” The last words were barely audible, but they were enough.

”And you believed him?”

Kent nodded.

”He’s sick, Kent!”

The nurse looked up again.

”I didn’t fucking know that - “

But he did, and Bob knew it. He was a fucking liar, a fucking liar and a fucking faggot and he hadn’t done a single fucking thing that could’ve helped Jack. He loved him, and he almost let him fucking kill himself, and Bob knew it.

”I’m sorry,” he repeated.

Bob didn’t look at him. Instead, he put his head in his hands and breathed, deeply, in and out, like Jack had done so many times.

”I’m so - ”

”I can’t do this.” Bob looked up, centuries older. ”I’m sorry, Kent, I just can’t.”

And with that, he left, disappeared behind the door that for the second time shut in Kent’s face.

He’d known. He’d known, and now he was never going to see Jack again.

On shaking legs, he walked back to the chair and sank down into it, willed himself not to cry. If he did, he really would turn to sand, and there would be no one to wipe him away.

At some point, when he looked up next, the clock showed midday, and a new gurney turned the corner with a team of paramedics yelling to each other.

Someone else was going to live. Lucky them.

He straightened himself up and cracked his sore neck, wiped the crust from his eyes. His mouth felt like a desert, his tongue twice its usual size and with a surface like sandpaper. He wasn’t sure he’d been awake, except he knew he hadn’t slept.

There was no movement by the door, not since the gurney had been taken through. Kent hadn’t thought there would be.

Perhaps Jack had been moved, without him noticing. Through the back, Bad Bob’s orders. Or maybe Jack had died.

A new wave of nausea built, but he forced it down. There was nothing in his stomach to expel but acid, and he wasn’t doing that again.

He was about to stand, make his way over the nurse’s station (a new one again) and ask her, when the sound of footsteps, loud and clearly in a hurry, rang through the corridor. A second later, the face of a man Kent had never wanted to see again appeared, flushed and angry and clearly not used to this much physical excursion.

”Parson, the fuck did I tell you?”

Kent closed his eyes. If he didn’t look, Molyneux would just go away. Everything would just go the _fuck_ away.

”Hey! I’m talking to you, don’t pretend like you can’t fucking hear me!”

He was on him now, the smell of expensive but distasteful cologne hitting Kent’s nose before the hand hit his shoulder. Cold, even through his shirt. Clammy.

”Get up, we’re leaving. The back entrance is still free, and I’ve got a hotel room with your shit. Be glad for the Zimmermanns, getting it dropped off to me like that. What are you looking at me like that for, get the fuck up!”

Kent’s mouth was open, but no sounds came over his lips. There were no words in him, nothing left that he could bring to air.

They’d thrown him out. Like he was nothing better than a rat that had found its way to their precious son’s bed and bit him in his sleep.

Had there been any strength left in his body, it evaporated, and he found himself dragged to his feet, dragged away from the door Jack had gone inside and out of the hospital and into a car waiting at the curb. Illegally parked. As if that was something that still mattered.

Throughout the ride, Molyneux talked, but Kent didn’t listen. When they came to a halt, he let himself be dragged out and into a building with a cap pressed far down his head and his eyes on the curb. It must have looked strange, a middle-aged man with badly-concealed fury on his face dragging a numbed teenage boy into the lobby of a cheap hotel, but no one said a thing. Or if they did, Kent didn’t hear.

They got to the room, and he was unceremoniously handed a suit, a pair of dress shoes and a towel before being all but pushed into the bathroom. The door shut behind him.

”We’re leaving in half an hour and you better be fucking ready then. I’m not dressing you.”

”Fuck you,” Kent croaked, but no sound came over his lips.

There was a glass on the sink, filled and quickly emptied again and again and again until a wave of nausea forced Kent down on his knees and his head down the toilet bowl. Again. It hurt, more this time, like he was coughing up his organs, but there was no blood. Perhaps he didn’t have any of that left, either. He closed the lid and sat down on it, looked around the room. Wondered if it was possible to drown in a standing shower. Probably wasn’t. Perhaps Jack would have tried if it was.

A second look around revealed a small collection of hotel soaps, cheap, probably foul-smelling, even some shaving cream. No razor.

Anger crept up his throat, nearly spilled out between his broken lip, but he ground his teeth together and stayed quiet.

Like he was going to fucking kill himself, too.

The water was hot on his back, painfully so, but Kent let it be, viciously scrubbed the remains of the last day off his skin until it was raw and red, then hid it behind the hideous suit his Ma had helped him buy the summer before.

It barely fit.

It didn’t matter.

Before walking out of the bathroom, he made the mistake of looking into the almost steam-cleared mirror, met a face he barely recognised, certainly not as himself. Losing weight shouldn’t be possible in twenty-four hours.

Fuck it.

He entered the hotel room again, and Molyneux grimaced. ”Is that how your hair’s going to look?”

As if shit like that mattered anymore. As if anything did. ”It’s how my hair fucking looks.”

A sigh, deep and world-weary as had all woe and misery of the world befallen him. ”Be like that.”

Kent ground his teeth, looked outside. The sun was shining. Odd. In Kent’s bones, it felt like rain.

Perhaps there’d be thunder later.

*

The drive was quiet. There should have been noise, fighting, Kent jumping out of the car and running back to the hospital to the side of a magically-awakened Jack to whom he would proclaim his love and receive it in turn. Or just refusing to go to the draft in solidarity. Do anything except allow himself to be pulled around like a dog at a show.

_Let’s see if it can jump. Let’s see if it can shake hands. Let’s see if it can make it through the night without bursting into tears and breaking apart for the whole world to see._

”Don’t do anything stupid,” Molyneux said as he parked the car, as if reading his thoughts. ”This is your big night.”

Should’ve been Jack’s, too.

Before he could make a run for it, Molyneux’s hand clasped down on his shoulder, walked him neatly through the array of journalists with the fakest smile on his face Kent had ever seen. Still, he copied it, as much as he could, evaded the questions thrown at him. In his suit pockets, his hands were balled into fists tight enough to leave bruises in the palms of his hands that wouldn’t fade until the next day. At some point, there would be blood.

The hall was vast, much bigger than it looked on tv. Awe-inspiring. Almost. Somehow, despite the size, Kent’s eyes fell on Channer almost immediately. For the briefest of moments, he prayed to whatever God couldn’t possibly exist that he wouldn’t be spotted in return, but the prayers ended as Channer’s eyes widened, and he rose from his seat.

Kent swore under his breath, earned himself a bruise on his shoulder where Molyneux’s hand was still clasped.

”How is he?”

Too loud, too many people swirling their heads. As if they weren’t already looking.

Kent swallowed, more than aware of the cameras only feet away. Or, the hand on his shoulder was. ”I don’t know any more than you. I don’t know what happened.”

The look Channer gave him made him want to fucking cry. ”Parser. Come on. How is he?”

Kent shrugged. ”I don’t know, Channer.”

For once, he wished he was lying.

Channer opened his mouth, then closed it again. Nodded. ”Do you want to sit with us? My Mom’s here. She’s a real fan.”

Just what he needed. A fucking fan. Still. Kent glanced back at the hand on his shoulder. ”Sure.”

He didn’t say anymore, and Channer didn’t push him. Molyneux didn’t look happy, but one frown from Channer when he started following them halted him, and Kent was grateful down to the tip of his toes.

Mrs. Chan was nice. Quiet and polite, the exact opposite of her son in personality if anything but in looks. Channer must have briefed her, because there were no digging questions, no overwhelming conversation, only a kind smile and a squeeze of his hand that stopped Kent’s breath.

He wanted his Ma. He was almost nineteen years old and he wanted his Ma to hug him, to hold him in her arms and rock him until all the pain went away, like she had when he was little. He wanted to be little again, but he couldn’t, because the ceremony was starting and the cameras were rolling and everything was happening too fucking fast and too fucking much. When his name was called, it was only because of Channer’s elbow to his side that he managed to get out of his chair, slap on the smirk he’d practised in the mirror when he was fifteen, before Rimouski, before _everything_ , and get on up there.

The jersey was waiting, black and white and with a giant ace of spades on the chest. His now.

Except it should’ve been Jack’s.

He stumbled up the stairs and laughed it off as he did everything, shook the announcer’s hand. The GM’s. Smiled to the crowd and the journalists with his new jersey held in front of him. ’Parson’, it said, stitched on the back in bright, gold letters.

If he looked closely, would there be hastily unmade stitches reading ’Zimmermann’?

It should have been Jack, he thought. It should’ve been Jack, it should’ve been Jack, it should’ve been Jack.

A nauseating smell of money lingered in his nose as he walked back down to the Chan family’s row, and as he kept walking, past guys he’d shared locker rooms with, guys he had humiliated on the ice, guys who’d tried to check him into oblivion but were now looking on with a mixture of confusion and pity in their eyes. Past Molyneux who could do nothing but quietly urge him to go back.

Kent didn’t hear him.

It should’ve been Jack.

By the time cold night air hit his face, tears were already streaming down his face again, and he felt smaller than he had in years.

The jersey was still in his hands. There was a puddle of questionable liquid to his right. Somehow, he kept himself from throwing it in. Instead, he fell back against the wall, slid down to the ground, slipped his arms around his knees and cried his fucking heart out. Or whatever was left of it.

Molyneux had been right. It should’ve been the best night of his life. Relief should be flowing in his veins, relief and victory and happiness like he’d never felt. And Jack should’ve been by his side, as relieved and victorious and happy as he.

But it was wrong. It was all so fucking wrong.

And there wasn’t a single fucking thing he could do to make it right.

He wanted his Ma. As the tears stilled, it was the one thought left, the only one he could bear to think. With shaking fingers, he fished out the phone haphazardly thrown into his back pocket and turned it on. There was still battery, somehow. Enough.

She picked up on the third ring, barely getting out a ’hello’ before Kent interrupted her.

”I’m gay.”

It hadn’t been planned. He shouldn’t have said it. The silence on the other end should’ve been deafening, but Kent was so far beyond caring it didn’t even touch him.

”Come again?”

”You heard me. I’m a fucking fag - ”

”Ken, I don’t – aren’t you at the draft, what’s - ”

” - and my boyfriend just tried to fucking kill himself and I’m going to Las Vegas, and I went first, and it’s all going to shit, Ma. It’s all just so fucked up.” The tears were back, like waterfalls and icicles that burned his skin, but it was nothing.

”Kent, I don’t understand what you’re saying.” There were tears in her voice, too, not enough to spill, but close. ”Have you been drinking? Have you taken anything? If you have, please, _please_ go to a hospital, I - ”

”I’ve just been to the fucking hospital,” Kent interrupted her. ”I’ve just been at a hospital for - for eighteen fucking hours because Jack tried to fucking kill himself, and he’s out of the draft, and he could be dead right now for all I fucking know! And I’m going to Las Vegas. I don’t know why, but I’m going to Las _fucking_ Vegas.”

”Kent. Oh, Kent.” And there were the tears. A sick feeling of satisfaction churned in Kent’s stomach, spoiled and putrid. ”Are you alone? Is there anyone with you?”

”I’m a fucking fag, ma, there’s _no one_ with me!”

”I’m with you, Kent! I’ll always be with you, but please stop saying that, I can’t stand it!”

”Can’t stand it? Can’t _stand_ it?? Well, maybe you should’ve had that fucking abortion, or – or let Dad stay and beat the queer outta me, maybe that would’ve been for the fucking best - “

”Kent, Ken-doll, please stop, I can’t - ”

”I’m not stopping, Ma. It’s the fucking truth, don’t you want me to tell the truth? Would you rather I lied? I’ve been lying for years, you’ve always hated that - or do ya like it now?”

”Kent, please. _Please_. Come home, before you go. We can work it out, you’re upset right now, you’ve been under so much pressure - ”

”Goodbye, Ma.”

”Kent, don’t do anything drastic, I beg you!” Her voice cracked, stopped Kent’s finger just above the ’end call’ button.

Almost stopped his breathing.

When he spoke again, his voice was back to a quiet, nearly inaudible, colder than the dried-up tears on his face. ”I’m not gonna fucking kill myself, Ma.”

She sucked in a breath.

”I’m not that much of a _fucking_ coward.”

He pressed down, and the night went quiet once more. Faintly, he could hear the cheers of the crowd still inside. A siren rang through the air.

Other than that, there was silence. Heavy and suffocating silence.

*

The hospital was quiet, as it had been the night before. This time, though, he wasn’t alone in the waiting room. An old lady with a beautiful braid in her long, grey hair was there as well. Her eyes were closed. Kent assumed she was asleep.

It took only minutes after he sat himself down in the same plastic chair he’d spent the night in before Alicia Zimmermann, or a pale ghost of her, walked out the door Jack had been brought through now more than twenty-four hours ago. A weak and painfully fake smile made it onto her face as she noticed him.

”How is he?”

Déjà vu. Nauseating.

”He woke up,” Alicia said, voice as monotone as her son’s always was. ”For a few minutes. He’s sleeping again now, his body’s going through a lot. How did the draft go?”

”When’ll he be outta here?”

”Soon.” Alicia swallowed. ”Did you go first?” There was pain in her voice, pain, and something Kent refused to think of as relief.

”Can I see him?”

”I told you, he’s asleep right now.”

”But when he wakes up?”

Alicia grimaced. ”Kent … I don’t know how to say this, but … I don’t think you should visit him for a while.” She continued, but Kent’s eyes had closed. ”Bob told me you knew. About his … problem. With the pills. We have to get him on the right track, you understand, right?”

”And I can’t be there for that.”

”… we don’t think you should just yet.”

”Why not?”

”Please, Kent,” Alicia said, voice growing louder. The old woman in the chair stirred. Alicia lowered her voice. ”Please. We almost lost our son, and … he needs to go somewhere quiet. And safe. He can’t be … distracted. When he’s out of there, he’ll decide what he wants to do, okay?”

Her eyes were pleading. Something in Kent’s chest broke, the last thing still intact. He hadn’t thought there was any. ”Can you keep me updated on how he’s doing?”

Alicia nodded, relief flooding her face. ”We will. Take care of yourself, Kent.”

”Can’t I stay?” he asked, panic once more creeping up his chest. ”I’m not leaving for a while yet … I’m sure the Bouchards won’t mind me staying a little longer. I understand I can’t see him, but - ”

”Kent, you’d just wait here, in the hospital. And shouldn’t you be with your mother?”

The urge to hit her was overwhelming, swept through him like a fucking tsunami, and he swallowed it down. Bit his tongue so hard it drew blood. ”Fine. I’ll go. If I have to.”

”He’ll be moved soon,” Alicia said. ”Very soon. And you can’t follow him there.”

The urge to punch her returned, stronger than ever, almost enough for his fist to raise from its position by his thigh, but instead of giving in, he turned on his heel and left. Walked away from the last thing he had left to call home.

-/ \\-

The plane took off at a hellish eleven at night, but Kent didn’t mind. He couldn’t stay in that city – that country – for another second. An entire day in a cramped hotel room was long enough.

The look on Molyneux’s face when he’d announced he wanted to leave immediately had been almost enough for Kent to swallow his words, punch him in the face. They’d get away from the source of the news, he’d marvelled. It was brilliant. Kent was finally catching on. Pushing down the resentment boiling just underneath his skin was one of the hardest things Kent had ever done.

At least he was allowed to fly on his own. Molyneux still had work to do in Canada. Didn’t have time to get him to Vegas. Would call later, when he’d finished up reinventing himself as an NHL agent. Not just Juniors. Not anymore.

Kent stared out the window, forced down the stinging feeling in his eyes. He was going to Las Vegas, and Jack was being moved to a private facility. Or something similar. Somewhere he couldn’t even fucking talk to him.

It had all gone to fucking shit, so fucking fast even trying to think about it gave him whiplash.

Before his brain got the stupid idea to start crying again, he steadied himself. The draft had gone awry, but they could still play together again. Jack would get better and come back, couldn’t stay away, the same way Kent couldn’t. They’d be together again. As they were supposed to.

Sinking back into his seat, Kent blinked another round of tears out of his eyes. Everything had gone to shit, but it was going to be okay. He’d be okay. It was all going to be okay.

In the meantime, he just had to play.


	4. 2009/10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kent gets used to the temperatures of Las Vegas, hits replay on ' ... Baby One More Time', and punches someone in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point, you have to look at a chapter and think "I can't edit this forever". Even if you've had to make some major changes since the release of 4.19 because it kind of messed with the headcanons you're beginning to doubt as it is.
> 
> Warnings: sexual content, a bit of blood, some fighting, some homophobia, Carly being a dickhead, Kent being selfish.
> 
> Brought to you by Miley Cyrus' 'Party in the USA' and Panic! at the Disco's 'Pray For The Wicked'.

Even at shit in the morning, the airport in Las Vegas was crowded. Hotter than the devil’s asshole and twice as debaucherous, the Aces GM had said at the draft.

They looked forward to having him there.

_Now that we can’t have Zimmermann_ , he hadn’t said, and Kent hadn’t asked. Hadn’t been able to say a word at all. Molyneux’s eyes were drilling into the back of his skull, one phone call away from TMZ. Or Deadspin. Or whatever tabloid he figured could use the juiciest hockey scandal of the year. And so Kent had smiled and was looking forward to playing with them, too.

In the airport, he wasn’t sure he even could smile anymore. Exhaustion had settled deep in his bones, taken root in the image of a cold, limp Jack that appeared every time Kent closed his eyes, weighed him down like lead. He was going to have to fix that before training camps started.

The GM was one of the first faces in the crowd, standing next to two men Kent vaguely recognised from the matches he and Jack had watched in the last couple of months before the draft. Before everything.

”We were gonna make a sign for ya,” one of the men yawned.

”Sorry.”

”It was gonna be awesome, all black and gold and shit.”

”Sorry.”

”Never mind that,” the GM – Harrison, J-something Harrison – cut in, clasped his hands together in front of him. ”Parson, it is so good to have you with us. This is - ”

”Carlsberg,” sign-guy interrupted, stuck out his hand for Kent to shake. ”Carly on the ice.”

”Carly?”

”Chirping rights don’t come in ’til you’ve got your first point, kid.”

“Walter,” the other player said. “Or Scraps. Uh. Or Scrappy. You’ll be billeting with me.”

”Cool. Thanks. Nice to meetcha both.”

Carlsberg snickered. Walter elbowed him.

”Let’s get your luggage,” Harrison interrupted. ”I think we’d all love to get back to bed as soon as possible.”

”Hear, hear,” Carlsberg muttered, earned himself another elbow. He pushed back at Walter before turning his attention to Kent. ”Were there issues with the plane?”

Kent frowned. ”No?”

“Then why the fuck didja arrive at three in the fucking morning?”

”You could’ve just stayed home,” Kent said, adjusted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. ”No one asked you to come.”

”Jeez, kid, relax! You can’t blame a guy for wanting to meet his saviour!”

”Carly!” Walter whispered. ”Give him a break.”

”What’d I do?” Carlsberg raised his hands, nearly knocked a guy walking past in the head.

Walter sighed. ”Sorry ’bout him,” he said to Kent, who shrugged.

“Let’s just go get his luggage, yeah?” Harrison interrupted, physically placing himself between the three. As if fights were commonplace. ”It’s early, we’re all tired.”

“No shit - “ Carlsberg started, but Kent was already walking. Behind them, the three Aces were arguing amongst themselves, but Kent tuned them out. Three Aces and a GM. He was an Ace, too, now.

Dumping his backpack on the floor, Kent threw himself down on a chair by the luggage claim. Didn’t move a muscle when Walter sat down next to him, a look of absolute pity on his face, Harrison and Carlsberg whispering loudly a few feet off.

”Kid, are you - ”

”I’m fucking exhausted,” Kent interrupted, closed his eyes, drew his cap down over his eyes.

The luggage had been late when they arrived in Toronto, too. Not even six weeks ago. When the future had still been a sure thing.

With a small sound, the machine set in motion, and Kent was out before Harrison and Carlsberg could even stop bickering. Not that they ever did, it seemed.

“Why does he get the front seat?” Carlsberg complained.

”If you wanted it, you could’ve gotten your own damn car,” Harrison said, already pulling them out of the parking garage. ”Gotta give the kid some kinda perks before you guys get your hands on him.”

”I’m not driving in the middle of the fucking night.”

”Then don’t complain.”

There was a chirp in there, somewhere. Acting like a fucking kid. Something like that. Instead of saying anything, Kent let his head fall onto the window, watched the city pass by. Neon lights and stiletto heals and vomit. Sin City. Fabulous Las Vegas. Purgatory on Earth, according to Sister Frances who used to teach him Math. All sins imaginable hidden beneath gold and promises of fortune.

His Ma had visited Vegas once, back when she was still in high school. She and her friends had sneaked out and gotten drunk, one had nearly married an Elvis impersonator. And she’d been two months pregnant, hadn’t realised it until she was back in New York. When she told him, when he was little, the first part was spoken with laughter, the latter with a fondness that made him giggle.

Head still turned towards the city going past, Kent blinked. Tightened his fists.

His Ma had been there, and Jack should have been, and now Kent was, in Las fucking Vegas. For two years, at least. Less, if he was moved to Reno. Or traded. Which he probably wouldn’t be, not if the Aces were as desperate as they should be.

There were worse places to live, he thought as the car came to a stop, worse places to live and better places to die.

*

Kent woke up with a scream dying in his throat. He tore himself from the bed and half ran, half stumbled to the bathroom across the hall, only just in time to throw himself over the toilet bowl and puke his guts out. It wasn’t until he was dry heaving, sweat drying on his back and the acidic smell of vomit in his nose, that the image of a cold, limp Jack on a bathroom floor next to a poisonously orange bottle finally faded.

A soft knock on the door made him gasp, grasp the bowl a little harder.

”Parse? You okay in there, man?”

In the darkness, Kent nodded, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ”I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. Winced. ”Just ate something spoiled, I think.”

Five nights in a row.

”Can I get you something?” Scrappy asked after a moment of silence that could have held disbelief or simply stupidity. Five days of living together made the latter more likely.

”I’m good, thanks,” Kent croaked. ”Sorry for waking you up.”

”’s okay, dude. Drink some water, yeah? Try to get some more sleep.”

Kent cleared his throat again, painful as it was. ”Will do.”

Hesitating another moment, Scrappy finally padded back into his bedroom. Kent waited until he heard the bed springs creak under his weight before flushing the toilet and letting himself fall back against the bathtub. He took a deep breath, then another, only by the third noticing the moisture on his cheeks.

”Fuck,” he whispered. He was cold, almost shaking still, and wide awake. ” _Fuck_ you, Zimms.”

-/ \\-

Only when a firework went off outside did Kent realise it was the Fourth. Closing his eyes – not that it made any difference, Scrappy hadn’t cheaped out on curtains – Kent let the noise settle in his bones, tried to ignore the taste in his mouth like something had died there.

Fourth of July. Eight days since that night.

Perhaps, if he just kept his eyes closed and stayed in bed, time would stop. If he squeezed hard enough, he might even be able to go back in time, back to the party, not leave Jack’s side. Keep them home and fuck his brains out instead.

Except he couldn’t, and he needed to piss. With a groan, Kent pulled himself out of bed, tried not to wince at the way the bedsheets stuck to his back. Soaked through again, like they’d been every single night he’d slept in them. He blamed the Las Vegas heat, his body’s unwillingness to adapt to it. He’d struggled when he first came to Rimouski, too, as soon as the cold started hitting in a way it never did in New York.

He was getting real fucking tired of laundry.

In the kitchen, too small for his officially-not-enforcer body, Scrappy was pushing something around on a pan that might once have been eggs and bacon. At his feet was his dog, a large Siberian husky with intelligent eyes that still freaked Kent out, panting its little heart out. Having forced himself to throw out yet another t-shirt and put on one that might once have been Jack’s if no one asked, Kent could relate.

They looked happy together.

Before Kent could retreat back into the safe haven of a bedroom that didn’t smell like him, Scrappy looked up, abandoned the travesty on the pan for holding out an honest-to-God bread basket. Crocheted spread and all. ”Happy birthday, Parse.”

Kent picked out a Danish. ”Thanks?”

”I looked you up,” Scrappy continued, snatched a piece of bacon from the pan and threw it down. On the ground, his dog sniffed at it, considered. ”Nineteen, right? Last year as a teenager.”

”Yeah.” Kent bit down on the Danish. Frowned. ”This isn’t allowed during the season, is it?”

”It’s not the season.”

”Yeah, I know, but. Once season starts.”

Scrappy smiled. ”It’s your birthday. And as long as you follow the rest of your diet, there’s still some good stuff you can have. Was your nutritionist in the Q really strict or something?”

_Blue eyes and calloused hands, breaths that were too fucking shallow until they weren’t there at all._

Kent tried to swallow, but the Danish had filled up his throat. “Something like that.”

*

June 27th 04.30 PM. To ’Jack’.

_~~please be~~ _

_~~i hope youre~~ _

_call me whn u see ths_

June 28th 9.13 AM. To ’Jack’

_i dunno if ur allowd phone in the hospitl ask ur parents to lend u thers_

_dont tell them youll call me_

_they dont like me right now_

June 29th 7.45 PM. To ’Jack’

_leaving for vegas now my phonell be off for a few hours but u can still call_

_i miss u_

June 30th 6.17 AM. To ’Jack’

_im here now_

_going to sleep but u can still call_

July 1st 7.43 AM. To ‘Jack’

_happy canada day_

July 3rd 4.37 PM. To ’Jack’

_it fucking blows here so boring i culd die._

_wish u were here_

_~~i can think of a lot of things we coudl~~ _

July 4th 7.37 AM. To ’Jack’

_happy birthday to me and the unitde states_

_wish u were here_

July 4th 10.03 AM

[Incoming call from ‘Ma’: accept?]

July 4th 1.37 PM

[Incoming call from ‘Ma’: accept?]

July 4th 5.32 PM

[Incoming call from ‘Ma’: accept?]

July 4th 9.14 PM. From ‘Ma’

_hapy birthday kent_

-/ \\-

The practice rink was the most boring building Kent had seen in Vegas so far. Brown and square, nothing like the game rink they’d driven past. Even had a dumpster behind it.

” - fucking planning. There were still builders here halfway through last season even though we’d been told they’d be out when season started. That’s Vegas for you,” Scrappy said, took a brief pause to breathe for the first time since the car had started. ”And, you know, Rezzy’s real superstitious – do you think that’s, like, a Mexican thing or a hockey thing?”

Kent shrugged, held open the door to the building on second thought. The cold hit immediately, a shock from the dry Vegas air.

”I think it’s both,” Scrappy continued, walking them down a corridor that could’ve belonged to any other rink. Save for the lack of trophies. ”Like, they magnify each other. And with all those ladders that were always moving around, he was majorly freaked out. There was this one time, he - ”

”Do we do public practices here?” Kent interrupted. In front of them, the rink stretched out in all its glory. Hundreds of seats, logos of companies Kent had never even heard of, a perfect, untouched sheen of ice. Because no one had been on it, yet. Not here.

”Nah,” Scrappy said, oblivious to everything that wasn’t his own fucking nose. ”Can’t have anyone see us fuck up.”

He snickered. Kent didn’t. ”Dressing room’s over there, right? By the camera.”

Scrappy’s eyes widened. ”You’ve been here before?”

”There’s a fucking tunnel.” And hours upon hours of laughing at a screen with Jack as the new team one of them would inevitably end up on got their asses kicked.

”Oh. Right.”

With a thin smile, Kent walked over, contemplated waiting for Scrappy to open the door but decided against it. No fear.

“Welcome to the Las Vegas Aces, rookie!”

Kent blinked, kept his face neutral. A naked guy in the middle of a dressing room, feet firmly planted on the ace of spades on the floor, arms spread wide. Nothing new. Not even a new face.

A large man with a blonde buzzcut only just growing out threw a towel at Carlsberg. ”Quit traumatising the fucking rookie.”

”He’s gotta get used to it,” Carlsberg countered, threw the towel right back.

Kent walked through the bickering with his eyes firmly set in front of him, found his stall in a corner. The ‘Parson’ tag was new, he noticed. One of the corners sat a little loose, as if hastily applied. Perhaps, if he pulled, a ‘Z’ would show itself.

He undressed with his back to the team, more than aware of the eyes on him. The Las Vegas Aces were new, hungry for even the faintest taste of victory. Jack was going to have one hell of a time there, he’d laughed more than once. They were in need of a miracle, and Jack was more than good enough for that. Or so the countless commentators and journalists and managers had said, until they hadn’t, until they’d turned around and synonymised his name with cocaine and reckless partying. Daddy’s name dragged through the mud.

An acidic taste filled Kent’s mouth. Fucking vultures, each and every one of them. Circling their prey and running it to exhaustion then feasting on the still-breathing carcass until only shining white bones were left.

And now the expectations were on Kent. He could either set the world on fire or burn out, and they would enjoy every second of it.

There were better places to die, he reminded himself, sliding on the black jersey with the ace of spades on the chest and his name stitched in large white letters on his back.

”Where do you think you’re going?” Carlsberg asked.

”To the rink. That not allowed here or something?”

Someone snickered. Kent didn’t stay long enough to see who.

The ice was still untouched – still a shock – but Kent didn’t let himself linger. He found a bucket of pucks next to one of the goals, poured them onto the ice, vaguely remembered his own annoyance at rookies that treated their new rinks as if they owned them.

He’d been brought there expected to bring results. They couldn’t fault him for getting some fucking practice in.

Turning his mouthguard in his mouth, Kent hit the first puck in the net the second on the lintel. The third as well, the fourth. He changed his angle.

NHL goals were the same as the ones in the Q. Good to know.

The goals probably weren’t as good in whatever rink Jack was playing in. If he was playing at all and not still stuck in some hospital in fuckwhere, Québec. Or Ontario, or wherever else his parents had brought him.

The eighth puck bounced off the boards three feet from the goal.

The ninth went in. And the tenth. And the eleventh.

By the time someone whistled behind him, Kent had long lost count.

”Nice shots, kid,” Luis Suárez said from where he was leaning against the boards, looking like a fucking douchebag. Thin upper-lip moustache and all.

”Thanks.”

”And here I thought Zimmermann was the straight shooter of the two of you.”

No fear. Steady voice, steady hands. ”We’re both pretty good.”

”Too bad about him,” Alistair Manson joined in. ”You never got into that shit, did you?”

Steady voice, steady hands. ”I’ve never done drugs if that’s what you’re asking.”

”Never said you did, kiddo.”

A skate hit the ice. Kent didn’t look up, not until Manson was only a few feet from him.

”One thing I noticed in your games, though. You’re pretty fucking fast.”

Kent shrugged. ”So I’ve been told.”

”How ’bout a race, then?” Manson picked up a puck. ”This’ll be at the goal. We’ll start from the other end, first one to shoot and score wins.”

There were more Aces by the boards now, black and gold silhouettes against the white.

”Unless you don’t think you can win?”

_Gold all the way through? Or did some from the broken statue by your feet just rub off before it fell?_

Kent smirked. ”Bring it on, old man.”

Manson’s smile widened. Never breaking eye contact with Kent, he placed the puck down, skated towards the other end with Kent just behind him and his eyes on his back. He was a powerhouse of a man, the kind of player Kent would keep as far away from as possible during a game, and as a result not especially fast. If he wanted to win, it’d be with one shot.

“Good luck, kid,” Manson smiled, seconds before Suárez’ arm came down between them.

They set off, Manson ahead, Kent with a sharp step to the right. Just in case.

Despite his size, Manson was fast – not a game, no need to save energy – and Kent had to grit his teeth to catch up just after centre ice. He shot in just in front of Manson, ignored the sound of a stick hitting the ice just behind him. Kept running until the puck was there.

And Manson.

To the cheers of the watching Aces, Kent threw himself to the side, only narrowly missing a hit from the side that would’ve sent him scrambling on the ice. The puck was at his stick, grabbed at the last possible moment, but Manson was back before he had the time to shoot. A stick hit the back of Kent’s legs, not enough to knock him down but enough for a groan to make its way up Kent’s throat, immediately swallowed down. He still had the puck, slightly knocked off course, but they were alone on the ice. Kent lifted his stick, aborted mid-swing as a sudden flash of black, stepped to the side.

The hit was hard, would’ve been devastating had it hit him straight-on. Instead, he stumbled, fell to the ice, but not before pushing the puck away. A couple of inches, but it would have to do.

Above him, Manson was smiling. Much further away, the goal was glaringly empty.

They went into motion at the same time, Manson skating forward with his stick raised, Kent scrambling ahead with his only barely clasped in his hand. He was closer, but Manson was much faster and his blades much sharper if Kent didn’t get his hands out of the way quick enough.

Six feet away from puck, Manson lifted his stick, victory clear on his face in a way that made something dark and burning flare up inside Kent.

With one last lunge, he hit the puck with the edge of his stick, let out a cry as Manson’s came down on his wrist. The hit was crooked, but the puck still shot off. Manson let out a swear and set running, momentum lost from the swing. From the ice, Kent watched the puck sail across the ice, coming to a halt just on the other side of the goal line fractions of a second before Manson. The sound of his stick hitting the ice echoed through the rink.

“Huh,” Kent muttered to himself, plastered a smirk back on. ”That good enough for ya?”

By the goal, Manson looked up, straight at Kent, and for a second it looked like he was going to drop his gloves. Then, the clouds dispersed and a wide grin broke out instead. ”That was such a stupid fucking move, kid.”

Skating over, he held out his right hand, hoisted Kent up by his still throbbing left.

”I didn’t get here with brains.” No grimace. No pain.

”Obviously not. Fuck, kid. No hard feelings on the check?”

“’course not.”

A large hand came down on Kent’s back, nearly sent him back onto the ice, but he kept his feet firmly planted, smirked back. Tried not to collapse too obviously once back on land. Didn’t grimace until he pulled off his glove to inspect the damage. Some swelling, some redness. Nothing a bag of peas couldn’t handle. Nothing he couldn’t skate through until then.

“Showing off on your first day?”

Kent glanced up. “Just trying out the ice.”

Anthony Burke, head coach of the Las Vegas Aces, former assistant for the Chicago Blackhawks, ten seasons with the Toronto Maple Leafs, five with the Dallas Stars before that. Rough and tumble but steady. No records, two minor scandals. One All-Stars.

”Your wrist’s not broken, I hope.”

”Just a little bruised.”

”You could’ve lost your fucking arm with that move.”

Kent shrugged. ”I got the goal.”

”That’s not the fucking point, kid. You can’t fucking score with one arm.”

”But I didn’t lose it.”

Burke’s eyes narrowed. Kent didn’t blink.

”Your footwork’s sloppy. All speed, no elegance. And you’re too fucking skinny, the fuck’s Walter feeding you?”

_Fifteen pounds_. ”I don’t need elegance to score goals, I’m not a fucking figure skater.”

Burke smiled. Bullseye. ”You’re damn right, it’s not. But you still need some finesse. You’re fast, that’s for fucking sure, but you’re young. You’re rough. And you take too many fucking chances.”

”Want me to play safe instead?”

”Fuck no. Zimmermann played safe when he wasn’t fighting. You saw what happened to him.”

Steady voice, steady hands. ”That had nothing to do with hockey.”

”I hope not. I really do. You spoken with miss Teterya yet?”

“Who?”

“Head of PR.” Burke waved a hand. “You’ll know her if you need to. Pray you don’t. Now get your ass off the bench, practice starts for real in five minutes, and I hope for your sake you’re not always this fucking disrespectful.”

Kent smiled. “’course not, Coach.”

-/ \\-

When he woke up, it was dark. For a second, Kent lay there, waited for the nausea to kick in, but nothing came. Instead, his phone rang again. Squinting, Kent grabbed it off the night stand, immediately bolted up.

Private number. Canadian.

“Hello?”

There was someone on the line. There were no words, no breathing, but someone was there. Kent’s lungs constricted. ”Zimms?”

A sound. Fabric rustling. Or someone trying not to cry. Or a car going by outside.

”Jack?”

The call ended.

For almost half a minute, he sat in the silence, the dark, one hand grasping at the sheets and the other the phone. A scream was tearing its way up his throat, would come out acidic, and he swallowed it down, pressed the call-back button with shaking fingers and shaking breath. Waited.

“Guérison Tournesol, j’suis Marianne, quoi puis-je vous - “

“Hello, je – j’suis un copain d’Jack – de Jack Zimmermann. Il a moi téléphoner – um, he called me just now? Is he there? Est-il là?”

“On parle pas à journalistes. Bonjour, monsieur.”

“No, I - “

Too late. The beep cut through Kent’s mind, tore him clean in two. Not bothering to turn the phone off, he laid down on the bed, curled around himself. Didn’t cry. It had been one month, almost to the date, and there were still no tears left in him.

Perhaps Vegas had dried him out.

When Scrappy knocked on his door, tentative, unusual, Kent wasn’t sure he hadn’t just dreamt it, the phone call, the woman. Probably had. Jack’s birthday was coming up.

*

Another puck flew through the air and landed in the goalie’s glove. Gritting his teeth, Kent skated to the side to avoid a D-man as it fell back onto the ice. Another Ace in a bright orange pullover skated up, not a D-man, still a defence, but Kent was faster.

He was always fucking faster.

A shout rang through the rink, but Kent ignored it, hit the puck a fraction of a second before the fucker skated into him, sent them both onto the ice in a mess of limbs. Somewhere, a whistle blew.

The guy got up, Kent a moment later with Suárez’ hand under his arm.

”You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

”Did it go on?”

Suárez’ face broke into a grin. ”You seen Coach’s face? Of course it fucking went in!”

”Worth it, then.”

Shaking his head, Suárez skated off with a string of Spanish under his breath, left Kent to make it to the face-off circle on his own, push himself through the last half hour of practice. Actual practice, now. No more training camps, no more rookies sent down.

If the NHL didn’t think he belonged, they should up their fucking standards.

In the dressing room, he undressed with his back to the team, turned only when necessary – but every day, anything else would be suspicious – and laughed along. Chirped every once in a while. It worked, had since he was a kid, would for the next decade or two. He just had to keep it up.

Pulling off his towel and reaching for his underwear, Kent didn’t glance up as Carlsberg walked over. Not naked. This time.

”So … Zimmermann.”

Kent stiffened, forced himself to loosen up and continue dressing.

Behind them, Scrappy let out a sound not unlike a balloon deflating. ”Come on, man.”

”I mean, that was fucked up,” Carlsberg continued.

The dressing room wasn’t full, not quite, but it was quiet. Hadn’t been before.

_Wait for a month, see if he bites._

Kent shrugged.

”The Q certainly wasn’t that fucked up when I played there. I mean, _cocaine_?” Carlsberg huffed, hands on his hips.

”Weren’t you in the CHL?” someone asked.

“Shut your pie-hole, Troy.” Carlsberg turned back to Kent. ”Did you know that he - ” 

”I didn’t know anything,” Kent said, fastened his belt with aching fingers. Molyneux would be proud. ”He was good at keeping secrets.”

”Secrets,” Carlsberg repeated.

Kent nodded. “I was as shocked as everyone else when he was put in the - “

”So you weren’t fucking?”

Steady voice, steady hands, steadyvoicesteadyhandsnofear - “What?”

”Fucking,” Carlsberg repeated. ”Having sex. Boning. Doinking. Doing it. Going to town on each - “

”I think he gets it,” one of the other rookies – Crawford – said.

Carlsberg gave him the finger without looking back.

”No,” Kent said, pulled on a t-shirt. ”We weren’t.”

”You sure?” Suárez asked.

”I think I know where my dick’s been.”

Laughter erupted in the dressing room, hid Kent’s escape. Or let him off the hook. It didn’t matter which.

”We don’t all feel like that,” Crawford whispered later that day, out of ear-shot of the other guys, too fucking close to Kent. “It’s cool if you and Zimmermann were, you know. An item. I don’t mind gay guys, and I know - “

Kent forced his eyes to stay open, forced his stomach to uncurl itself, his breathing to stay steady. “He was my best fucking friend, I thought I’d already said that. Some people’ll say anything for a headline. I don’t mind that shit, either, but it was pretty fucking weird.”

“Right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to … sorry.”

”’s all cool,” Kent replied, looked back out the window, squinted at the blue sky. And the sun, burning down without mercy. The last thing Icarus saw before that mercilessness was aimed at him.

-/ \\-

August 3rd 9.01 AM. To ’Jack’

_happy birthday_

_if ur still alive_

_~~sorry i didnt~~ _

_~~bad joke i kno~~ _

_~~please just call m~~ _

_i miss u_

-/ \\-

Burke had barely finished his presentation before Kent stalked up to him. From the look in his eyes, it was clear he was expected.

“Before you say anything, think about whether or not I might have a reason.”

Kent’s eyes narrowed. “A reason for not putting me in _any_ games? Isn’t that why ya fucking drafted me, so I could win some fucking games for ya?”

Burke crossed his arms, squared his shoulders. As if Kent might punch him. ”You honestly think you’re ready on the ice yet?”

And maybe he would. ”Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?”

With a quick look around, Burke took a step closer, forced Kent to fight the urge to take a step back. “I don’t know how much weight you’ve lost this summer, but I know nutrition’s on your ass. Walter tells me you’re always up before him. You’re rude and snappy in the dressing room.”

“The fuck’s that to do with - “

“Your best friend OD’ed almost two months ago. Drugs, some say. Now,” he interrupted himself before Kent could. ”I’m not saying you’ve taken shit, too, but by the time the actual season starts, there won’t be a trace of anything in you. If there was something in the first place. Which there wasn’t.”

At his sides, Kent’s knuckles were white. ”You saying you’re not putting me in until fucking October?”

Burke didn’t even blink. ”That’s exactly what I’m saying. And you better accept it if you want to stay on this team.”

And he did. As if there was any-fucking-thing he had anymore, other than hockey. As if the bastard knew that.

Stalking over to his stall, he tore off his jersey, let it fall to the floor before working on the fastenings of his pants. By the time he’d showered, he almost felt human again.

“ - take you out some time. The ladies here ain’t what you’re used to up in Canada.”

”I’d like to go out,” Troy said from a few stalls down.

”We know you would, you thirsty-ass motherfucker.”

”We should go out. As a team. Show ’em the sights,” Suárez chipped in.

Carlsberg pointed at him. ”That we should, Rezzy. That we should.”

In his own stall, Kent took a deep breath, pulled on a flannel, swept a hand through his hair before hiding it under a cap. Left the dressing room without looking back, anger like an ember beneath his skin.

October was only a month away. He’d have put the rest of the weight back on, then, figured out how to sleep and wake up feeling rested. He’d be fine. It’d all be fine.

*

The only warning Kent got before he was pulled from Scrappy’s couch by the arm and out of the door with his shoes untied was a polite knock on the door that Scrappy in hindsight was far too quick to answer. They were halfway out of the lobby before Kent realised what was happening. A flash of adrenaline tore through him, swept with it déjà vu and the memory of a bag over his head.

He should’ve known.

”Welcome to the fucking party!” Carlsberg yelled as he was pushed into the back seat of a car that had to cost twice of what his Ma made in a year. A sharp pang of guilt shot through Kent’s stomach, but it was difficult to focus on as a large pair of hands pushed him back out of the car. After some rummaging around, more manhandling than Kent would ever admit to, he was settled in the middle of Troy and Crawford in a back seat nowhere near big enough for three NHL players, questioning whatever stupid decisions he’d ever made in his life that had somehow led him to that moment.

Manson leaned over from the passenger seat and threw a can of beer at each of them.

”Drink up, kiddos. You’re gonna need it.”

”Is this hazing?” Crawford asked, eyes darting from Manson to Carlsberg flicking the key in the ignition and pushing down on the accelerator.

”Aren’t you having some?” Troy asked, already well into his beer.

”Someone needs to drive us all home,” Carly said. ”And no hazing, kiddo, we don’t do that shit here.”

”You’re not drunk, right?” Crawford asked.

Carly looked back for a second before focusing back on the road. ”I’m not a fucking idiot, buddy, and I don’t wanna get thrown off the team if we get caught. Don’t feel like jail, either, so if we get pulled over, you’re hiding those cans.”

”Got it,” Troy said, finishing his can in one long gulp and a burp.

”That’s fucking disgusting,” Manson announced.

Troy burped again, and the car erupted in laughter. Or giggles, in Manson’s case. A sound that should not be emitted from a man who was 6’5” and at least 250 pounds, none of which brain.

Sparing a glance at his own can, Kent resigned himself to his fate, took a sip.

Not bad. Expensive.

Somehow, at least two cans down, songs came into the picture, and Kent knew with absolute clarity, despite the beginning of a buzz beneath his skin, that nothing could ever surprise him again.

” - my hands up, they’re playin’ my song, you know I’m gonna be okay - ” Manson belted, loud enough for the passing drivers to send them weird looks from their cars. Neither Troy nor Crawford knew the lyrics, but Kent figured that wasn’t all too important. At least no one seemed to notice that he did.

”It’s team spirit,” Carly insisted when he wasn’t singing loudly enough, grin wide on his face. ”Gotta accept it, man! Y’can’t beat ’em, so just join ’em!”

Kent grinned back and raised his voice. Better places to die.

And then they came to a halt, in front of a club that was somehow louder than the assholes he was stuck with in the car, Bubbles with a cheer, Kent with a frown. ”How’re we gonna get in?”

”Whaddaya mean?”

Kent nodded towards the strongly-lit entrance, tried not to look directly at it in case the neon would burn his eyes. ”There’re minors here. That’s a night club. This ain’t exactly a hockey town.”

Carlsberg sighed and threw an arm over Kent’s shoulder, squeezed them close together. He smelled woody. Strong. Kent wanted to thrown up. ”Listen, kid, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about any-fucking-thing. We’ve got it. Trust us,” he whispered, breath soft against Kent’s ear. He shivered. Carlsberg tightened his hold around him. “We’ll be inside soon, pumpkin. Just hold on a second more.”

”Shut your fucking mouth.”

”Aww, don’t be like that. See, here’s your daddy!”

Kent stiffened as a car pulled up, relaxed again when Scrappy stepped out from the passenger seat, lifting a hand in greeting. ”He’s not my fucking dad.”

”He’s your billet dad. It’s almost like a real one. And Scrappy’s more of a dad than Sonny, and he’s got three kids!” Carlsberg laughed.

Kent snickered, too. The right side of him was beginning to warm up. Carlsberg was no Jack, but it was still nice. Too nice.

And then he was gone, instead in the middle of the assorted group of Aces. ”Alright, fuckers, we’re going in, and I’m your mama duck!”

”The fuck does he mean by mama duck?” Kent whispered to Scrappy, who shrugged.

At the door, the bouncer took one look at Kent and Troy and Crawford before looking back at Carlsberg’s smile. Shrugged and went back to his magazine.

Immediately upon entrance, Kent felt like his ears were going to give out. The music was blaring from a gigantic DJ booth one one side of the room, from speakers above the bar on the other side. In the middle, the floor was thick with people swaying, grinding, doing something that might have been dancing four drinks back.

Carlsberg stepped to the side and motioned for the others to follow. The tunnel they walked through was small and far too velvet-y for Kent’s liking. Not hazing they’d said, but taking the rookies to a fucking brothel would be a kind of hazing other teams could only dream of. The Las fucking Vegas _spirit_.

Perhaps they were going to a strip club. Kent could do strip clubs.

Eventually, Carly opened a door, shoved them all inside, closed out the music as if it had never been there. ”Alright, now that we can talk again - “

”Unfortunately,” one of the guys piped up.

”In your case, yes,” Carlsberg said. ”Drinks’re over there, we’ve got out own stereos, and we’ve got fucking peanuts!” The last part was yelled, coupled with Carlsberg picking up a giant bowl and raising it above his head like it was the fucking Stanley Cup. ”Welcome to the best fucking club in Vegas! Take it from me, I’ve tried them all!”

”He has,” Suárez added, nodding solemnly from where he was leaning against the wall, looking less like James Dean and more stupidly fucking drunk and about to fall over. ”First year was a fucking party. Non-stop party.”

Someone whooped, someone put on music, someone handed Kent a drink a shade of orange that looked downright poisonous.

”What’s this?”

”You have not had before?”

“I’m nineteen, Pops.”

“Fucking американцов. Is cocktail. Tropical.”

Kent stared down at the drink. Without thinking, he threw his head back and downed it all.

Someone whistled. ”Nice going, Parser.”

”Fuck you,” Kent whispered. Someone handed him another glass. He didn’t even hesitate.

It wasn’t bad, he decided after the third. More citrus-y than he was used to, more expensive. Pretty fucking gay, but strong enough to make up for it.

One table down, Crawford was fighting a bottle of champagne, tongue sticking out between his lips, three guys laughing their asses off around him. At last, the cork flew off, hit Crawford on the foot seconds before half the bottle soaked through his trousers, shirt, too, as he whipped it up. Some hit his face.

Kent snickered, drowned the sound in a fourth drink. Snorted some up as one of the vets – Lutz – fell to the floor, clutching his stomach. Above him, Troy took a step back to avoid a champagne splash, tripped, yelled something that was either ‘shit’ or ‘whoops’. Still fell on his fucking face.

And Kent laughed for real, loud and free in a way he hadn’t since … 

He took another mouthful of the drink, grimaced at the slight bitterness, the citrus burning his throat. Had some more until he couldn’t remember what Jack had felt like in his throat. How bitter he’d tasted.

Kent ordered a fifth drink, a sixth not long after. By the someone pulled him up, stuffed him into a car, he’d lost count. Pulled him out of it again, just as he was beginning to doze off.

“Not puking in my car,” Carlsberg – Carly said.

”’m not drunk,” Kent mumbled into a soft cotton blend that smelled like expensive cologne.

Jack smelled like expensive cologne.

”Sure you’re not, kiddo,” Carly smiled. His arm was warm against Kent’s back, as was his body. Carly was fucking hot, Kent thought. Snorted.

”What’s so funny?”

He shook his head. ”Nothin’. Nothin’s funny.”

”If you say so. Wanna press the button on the elevator?”

”’m not fucking _nine_!”

”’course you’re not. I’ll just press it, then.” Carly reached out, but Kent was faster. He was always fucking faster. The fucking fastest on the ice.

”- aaand you did it anyway. Good job, kiddo.”

Kent wanted to kiss the smile off his stupid face. Stupid face like Jack’s. He wanted to kiss Jack’s stupid face.

”’m not a kid,” he mumbled instead. Because he wasn’t stupid.

”If you say so.”

They rode the elevator in silence, and if Kent was leaning a bit too hard on Carly, it really wasn’t anyone’s business. He was drunk. He was excused. Carly didn’t smell like Jack.

”Think you can get yourself to bed?” Carly asked as they reached Scrappy’s front door.

_You can always come with me_. ”’course.”

“Awesome. Drink some water, kiddo. Prepare yourself for tomorrow.” With one last grin, Carly clapped Kent on the shoulder twice and walked off, whistling on his way.

Always fucking whistling.

It took two tries to get the door open, but by the time he did, Kent was ready to fucking die. With a loud groan, the last ounce of strength in his body, he pushed himself off the door and headed to his room, blamed the stumbling on the drinks.

And if he jacked himself off that night with the smell of expensive cologne lingering on his clothes, it wasn’t anyone’s fucking business but his own. Certainly wasn’t Jack’s, that _fucking_ asshole.

-/ \\-

October arrived with comfortable temperatures and a Halloween-inspired cake on the counter.

”It’s still four weeks, Scraps.”

”Halloween’s the best holiday of the year. Better prepare yourself for cute-ass kids in costumes ’cause I got some street cred from last year.”

”We live in a doorman-protected building.”

”There’re kids in the building.”

Kent hummed, grabbed a piece. Carrot. Not bad.

“First game tomorrow,” Scrappy said, calm and nonchalant. “You excited?”

”I guess.”

”It’s a pretty big deal.”

”I suppose.”

”First NHL game.”

”Yup.”

Scrappy went quiet. Frowned. “Are you nervous? ‘cause that’s totally normal. I certainly was, before my first game - “

Kent snorted. ”Fuck no. How bad can it be? It’s just the fucking Sharks.”

*

The dressing room was bustling, electric with energy that went straight to Kent’s spine, travelled through every nerve ending and vein, the marrow of his bones.

Perhaps he was nervous.

Swallowing it down, he pulled on his underarmour, fastened his pants, ran a hand over his helmet. New and shining. His hands weren’t shaking.

In the distance, far above the noise of the men around him, the crowd had already assembled, roared in dissonant unison. A war cry. Demands for blood.

Kent tightened his skates, pulled the laces to their breaking point and until he couldn’t feel his toes, loosened ever so lightly, tied a knot. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

“Remember your jersey.”

Burke, holding out the shirt Kent was sure had just been in his bag. He opened his mouth to ask what the fuck was going on when his eyes settled on the A stitched onto the jersey’s chest. Grabbing it out of Burke’s hand, he brought it closer to his face. There was no doubt about it. An A it was. He turned the jersey slightly to look at the shoulder as well when something caught his breath in his throat. He had to force himself to turn the shirt to look at the back, but look he did.

Stitched in proud, white letters, just above the ’90’ that had adorned Kent’s jersey since he first started playing, was ’Zimmermann’.

The scream tore its way up his throat, forced itself through the barrier of breath, the taste of bile, followed him to the darkness of Scrappy’s apartment.

Outside, just through a crack in the curtains, a neon sign flickered, pink and green, on and off, and Kent stared at it, tried to get his breathing under control through a throat that felt like the desert only a couple of miles out.

05:23, the clock on his night stand read. By the time the numbers turned to 26, he was breathing normally. As they hit 34, he stood out of the bed on shaking legs and moved to the bathroom, all but inhaled a glass of water.

There was no noise from Scrappy’s room. Either he was sleeping like the dead, or Kent had only screamed in the dream. Or he was getting sick of checking up on him.

With another deep breath, Kent returned to his bedroom, quietly threw on the training gear he’d left in the hamper the night before – when he came back from his run, after the carrot cake, the carrot cake had been real – and headed for the front door.

The rink was quiet, eerily so, miraculously open. Kent hadn’t even considered it might be closed. Probably should be, but that was an issue for another day. Without bothering to change into the rest of his gear, he dumped his bag in the dressing room, tied his skates, headed for the ice.

When he finally stopped shaking, the clock read 08:37.

At 9.30, he left for the dressing room to change with the rest of the team. Checked his jersey briefly before putting it on. ’Parson’. ’90’. A large ace of spades on his chest.

Just a fucking dream.

Still, it stayed in the back of his mind, kept him awake with a video of the Sharks’ last game in the living room while Scrappy napped, became only slightly fuzzy by the time the arena filled up and he once more tied his skates, put on the jersey.

Parson. 90. Ace of spades.

“We’re starting Popovich in the net,” Burke barked. “Manson and Walter in defence, Carlsberg, Parson, and Suárez on first line. Get your fucking asses out there and skin those fucking Sharks!”

There was no time for surprise, no place, not with the team making their way out the door, the hand on his shoulder. ”You’re in now, kid. Don’t be a fucking disappointment out there.”

Kent shook off the grip on his arm. Nodded.

”And whatever shit they spew at you, ignore it,” Burke continued, voice falling even lower. ”You don’t have to think out there, just concentrate on the puck.” He gave Kent’s shoulder one last, rough pat before all but pushing him into the corridor.

Near the entrance of the rink, Swoops let out a soft whistle. ”Not many people, eh?”

”I’ve seen more people at my junior games,” Kent replied. Fought down the urge to clear his throat.

”Get used to it,” Carly said. ”This is Vegas and we ain’t a fucking casino. You’re not gonna be superstars here if that’s what you’ve been hoping for.” He grinned, wide and mean, before following Sonny onto the ice, waving generously at the sparse audience. After him went Scrappy, then Suárez.

Kent stepped onto the last, felt for a second the crowd collectively inhale.

Or maybe he should’ve just tried to sleep a little more.

Halfway out on the ice, something blue appeared in the corner of Kent’s vision, became a Sharks player with a large gap where his front tooth should’ve been and a horror of a beard cursed onto the lower half of his face.

“Kent _fucking_ Parson. I’ll be damned. The golden boy himself. Finally gracing us with your presence?”

”One and only,” Kent said, straightened his spine, looked for a way out.

The guy’s grin widened, revealed another gap. ”Hope you like losing, kid, ’cause we’re gonna fuck you over so hard you won’t stand up again.”

”You wish. See ya - “

The Shark sped up, too, somehow kept up. ”But you like that, don’t you?”

Something clenched in the pit of Kent’s stomach. ”Not as much as you.”

“Or was it the other way, did you fuck Zimmermann?”

Kent bit down on his mouth guard.

“Fucked him so hard he became a cokehead? Did he snort it off your - “

And then he was out of earshot. Or the blood in Kent’s ears drowned out his words.

He didn’t know how long it took before the refs skated onto the ice, motioned for the players to get into position. The crowd, small as it was, held its breath while Kent could finally breathe.

The puck dropped.

Sonny didn’t stand a chance, and Kent set off as soon as the puck was hit, evaded a Shark the size of the truck and with a face that looked like it had been hit by one. Not the guy from before. Uglier.

The puck swept across the ice, landed by a Shark’s stick near the defensive zone, entered with a swift pass and an immediate hit – Carly, glass, cries of glee behind it. From the side, keeping an eye on a Shark skating a little too close, Kent followed, muscles tight. Ready to run.

”Give it up, you fucking cocksucker!”

The Shark snarled, just enough time for Carly to shoot the puck off, hit him one last time and run. In the net, Pops shot out, received, sent the puck off towards Kent whose heart leapt in his throat.

He really should’ve slept more.

Swallowing it back down, Kent set off, kept the puck going for a couple of seconds before passing to Rezzy to skate around an incoming Shark who immediately threw himself to the side, caught the puck and shot it back towards the Aces’ goal.

Swearing under his breath, mentally kicking himself, Kent ran after it, didn’t get far before Scrappy stepped in, sent the passed-to Shark sprawling on the ice with a neat hip-check. Left room for Carly to sweep in, shoot just past Kent to an already running Rezzy.

At centre ice, there was another pass – Scotty, then Kent, back to Rezzy. The Sharks were forming up, prepared for an attack, late for the defence. Building it back up would take seconds, seconds they didn’t have when Kent was warmed up. The puck hit his stick again, and he ran, left it all behind. Blue and black, yells and ice.

Silence, almost.

Halfway into the offensive zone, the first blurs began to appear, blue, then black, closer and closer until Kent caught the goalie’s eyes, saw the dark blue, lifted his stick.

The puck bounced off the goalie’s stick, hit the ice with a sound that seemed to echo, but Kent was there before it could make it to the masses, spun around a D-man, hit again.

A horn blew.

The crowd erupted.

Kent exhaled, just as something large and black skated into him, nearly sent him toppling onto the ice, but a strong arm around his shoulders steadied him, joined by two wrapping around his upper body.

Expensive cologne.

”First fucking NHL goal!” Carly roared, way too close to Kent’s ear.

”Fuck yeah, _Parser_!” Rezzy yelled, throwing himself into the two as well.

Kent closed his eyes, hid a grin in Carly’s shoulder.

Barely a minute in.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he had begun to smoulder.

*

The beer was bitter, expensive, sent Kent into a coughing fit that spilled his own on the floor, half on his shoes. A hand came down on his back, thumped, but Kent pushed him off, punched his shoulder for good measure.

“Fuck you, I could’ve fucking choked!”

”And not in a fun way,” Sonny laughed, joined in by the guys close enough to hear.

”To Parser!” Carly roared, raised his mostly empty glass into the air. ”First goal of the season and two fucking goals against the _fucking_ Sharks!”

More beer. Less bitter this time.

”See,” Pops remarked later that night, flushed red with alcohol, one arm thrown around Kent’s shoulder that he’d started suspecting might be more to keep his balance than anything else. ”This why we draft you.”

”’cause I can play?”

Pops nodded, took another swig of beer. ”You can play. Good thing we did not get Zimmermann. He not play.”

Kent bit his lip, forced down the taste of bile in the back of his throat. “Good thing you got me, then.”

-/ \\-

October 3rd 11.53 PM. To ’Ma’

_~~i did i~~ _

_~~i made it~~ _

_~~are you pr~~ _

Kent groaned, threw the phone down on his pillow. A couple of doors down, a toilet flushed. Scrappy’s door closed.

He should probably sleep, too.

Cracking his spine, Kent got up, brushed his teeth, tried not to look at the face staring back at him from the mirror. He’d put on more weight, not enough, not quite, but there were still angles to his face he couldn’t remember seeing before. Hadn’t quite gotten used to yet.

Good thing he didn’t need to look pretty to play hockey. Had done Jack a fat lot of good.

Returning to his room, he ran a hand through his hair, grimaced at the tangles. Picked up the phone still snuggled up on his pillow.

Frowned.

One missed call. Unknown number.

Something shot through Kent’s stomach, his chest, impaled and left a bleeding exit wound. Stole the breath from his lips. With shaking fingers, he pressed the ‘return call’ button, placed the phone to his ear.

One – two – thr-

Silence. Kent’s stomach tightened. Breathing. In and out, quiet and controlled. In and out.

“Jack?”

A slight hitch, impossible to detect for anyone else, burns to the back of Kent’s eyes.

“ … hello, Kenny.”

Jack. His Jack, Jack who wasn’t dead, Jack the fucking asshole.

“How’s Ontario?” Kent asked, just above Jack’s “How’s Vegas?”

”You first.”

”No, you.”

They breathed, didn’t laugh, perfectly in sync. As always.

”Vegas is cool,” Kent said. Swallowed. ”Different from Rimouski for sure. Fewer guys watching our games for one. Oh, and strip clubs everywhere.”

”Didn’t have those in Rimouski,” Jack said, voice still quiet. Still warm.

”Remember when Channer tried to sneak into one in Montréal?”

”And Coach nearly killed him, yes.”

As if it hadn’t been less than six months ago. Felt like years.

”How are you?” Kent whispered.

“… I’m better.”

”Better.”

”Yes.”

”Are you still in Ontario? I looked it up when you called me,” Kent added. He cleared his throat, too loud in the quiet of his room.

”I just got home,” Jack said. ”Euh, to Montréal. We moved. Back. We lived here before Rimouski.”

“You told me.”

“Did I?”

“I think so, yeah. Two years ago.”

“ … I don’t remember.”

“It’s fine, it doesn’t matter.” Kent swallowed. Shifted his weight. ”Are you … I mean, are you okay? And your parents?”

There was silence on the other end, five seconds. Ten. ”We’re … we’re taking a day at a time. I don’t really - ”

”Right, of course. Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve - ”

”It’s just not, it’s too close to - ”

”I get it, yeah, of course, I didn’t - ”

”It’s fine, just … sorry.”

Kent smiled. That sorry with the o just a little too long, like how Canadians always spoke in movies but none actually did in real life. Not like Jack did. ”I miss you so fucking much, you have no idea.”

” … I miss you, too.”

Drawing in a breath, quiet, Kent wiped his nose on his arm. Another time, he’d be disgusted with himself, but not this time. Not yet. ”Do your parents know you’re calling me?”

There was a small sound on the other end, almost like Jack was shaking his head. It would’ve been just like him.

”They don’t. I … they don’t really want me to talk to you. They - ”

”I know,” Kent interrupted. ”It’s … ”

”Yeah,” Jack finished for him.

”Yeah,” Kent repeated. ”But … how are you doing? Like, you’re out of rehab?”

The rustling sound from before came back. Kent smiled.

”I’m off the medicine … and I’m on something new now, I’ve tried a couple of things, and … not all have worked that well. The one I’m on now kinda gives me insomnia, but … ”

Kent glanced at the clock on his bedside table. 12:24 PM. ”It might get better?”

”If I’m lucky. I’m seeing a therapist, too, we all are, Maman and Papa, too. And all of us together.”

”That doesn’t sound like fun.”

”It isn’t. But … you know.”

”Yeah.”

”Yeah.”

Kent closed his eyes. ”You playing any hockey?”

Again, Jack went quiet. Kent swallowed.

”I haven’t been on ice since the summer. Before … all that.”

”You serious?”

”Yeah.”

”Shit.”

“It’s … not good right now, so - and my balance is horrible, I don’t even think I could … “

“No draft next summer?” Kent joked.

He hated Jack’s quiet. The whole room went quiet with it, the whole fucking world.

”Can we talk about something else?”

”Of course,” Kent breathed. ”Zimms, I - ”

”I should probably go, actually,” Jack interrupted. ”I think I heard my parents, and … they try to make sure I sleep, I shouldn’t worry them, I’ve already - “

”It’s cool.” Kent swallowed. ”Just … you can always call me, yeah?”

”Yeah,” Jack echoed. ”I’ll … I’ll talk to you later.”

”I’ll wait.”

”… thank you.”

”Any-fucking-time.”

On the other end, Jack smiled. ”Bonne nuit, Kenny.”

And Kent smiled, too. ”Goodnight, Zimms.”

The line went dead, and Kent fell back onto his bed, muffled any sound that might escape him in the pillow that still smelled of someone he didn’t know.

He dreamt that night, for the first time in a month. Same dream, same vomiting afterwards. In the morning, he checked the Aces’ schedule. Double-checked.

November 7th, Montréal Canadiens.

Thirty-four days.

He could wait thirty-four days.

-/ \\-

”What up, faggots!”

Kent turned, immediately whipped his head back.

”Jesus Christ, put some fucking clothes on!” Sonny yelled, shielding his eyes dramatically. ”You’re scaring the fucking rookies!”

”Yeah, we don’t wanna see that,” Swoops added.

”No one does.”

Carly paused by his stall, crossed his arms in front of his chest. ”Y’all’re just jealous.”

”You’re completely right. Congratulations, you’ve figured out the big secret,” Sonny deadpanned.

”Since when is Carly southern?” Kent heard Scrappy mutter to himself.

”It’s okay!” Carly slung his arm over the nearest rookie – Kent – and pulled him close. ”I get it. No one can resist this.” He gestured his hand down the front of his body. Kent glanced away.

Perhaps he had a thing for chest hair. Perhaps there was too fucking long ‘til November.

That night, he woke up not with the urge to puke but rock hard and bathed in sweat. Before he got the chance to think about it, he pushed his boxers down, wrapped a hand around himself and turned his head to bite the pillow. His strokes were rough and clumsy from lack of practice, but it was quick, painless, a stifled moan in a now-damp pillow as his back arched.

The room felt eerily silent, glaringly empty as Kent fell back onto the bed, forced his breathing to even out. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d jacked off. It had to have been before the Memorial Cup Final. Possibly even the night before.

Perhaps he cried, in the dark. Or laughed. It didn’t fucking matter. When he pulled out his boxers from where he’d kicked them to the side, they were stiff with dried pre-come.

One week to go.

*

The house was new but no less impressive than the one in Rimouski. Large and old-fashioned, at least three stories, a driveway so long even the most motivated vultures would have to give up and leave the Zimmermann family alone. Probably even had an ice rink in the backyard.

Kent leaned further back in the driver’s seat of the most inconspicuous car he’d been able to find at the car rental by the airport. Knocking on the front door probably wouldn’t be appreciated. Texting Jack would be better, let him know he was there. He should’ve done it earlier, figured out when Bob and Alicia were out, but planning had never been his strongest suit.

Rounding the corner, someone came running, and Kent pulled his cap further down, hid his face, but there was no need. The runner’s hood was pulled down low and the face behind it staring firmly down at the pavement, but the way his body moved was one Kent could recognise anywhere. He’d followed the movements for years, moved his eyes up and imitated whenever someone caught him, felt it under his hands when they were alone.

Drying off his suddenly clammy hands on his jeans, Kent thanked Lady Luck. Or whoever was listening.

When the car door shut behind him, Jack looked up, and even through the distance, Kent could see his eyes widen, bluer than they’d ever been and somehow larger in a face that now sported cheekbones sharper than his mother’s. The frame hidden under the hoodie Kent had never seen before was slighter, too, the hair peeking out from under the hood shorter.

Kent couldn’t fucking breathe. ”Heya Zimms. You look good.”

Jack looked around before clearing the last few feet between them. He smelled different, too, less like ice rinks and nice cologne, more like a disinfectant Kent vaguely recognised from when his Ma would come home after too many shifts at the hospital.

”What are you doing here?”.

Kent shrugged. ”Got a spare-time job at TMZ. Thought I could find a good story here.”

Jack didn’t return his smile. His shoulders were inching ever higher as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, glanced towards the mansion. ”You can’t be here.”

”Why not?”

”My parents are in there. They’ll be wondering where I am if I don’t come in soon.”

”And they still don’t want you to talk to me.”

Jack nodded. ”I’m sorry, but … ”

”I get it,” Kent interrupted. ”But do _you_ wanna talk to me?”

”Of course I do.”

He didn’t even hesitate. It took every ounce of willpower Kent had in his power to not push him against the car and kiss him until neither could breathe. ”Then we can just talk.”

Jack bit his lip. Kent wanted to bite it for him. ”I have to go in soon. Maman and Papa - ”

”They’ll get worried, I know.” Kent took a step closer. ”It’s fine, we won’t be long.”

”Kenny … ” Jack trailed off, looking everywhere but at Kent.

”Zimms, come on! It’s been … ” Kent folded his hands under his arms to keep one from reaching out to touch him. ”Shit, I just miss you, alright? I – you know I l- ”

Jack’s face twisted.

”- I miss you.”

A car turned around the corner and Jack took an instinctive step back.

”Look, I’m here until tomorrow afternoon. We’ve got a game tonight, but I’m free other than that.”

Jack tightened his hold on himself. ”I don’t - ”

”Got a hotel room and everything. Away from the team. Nice and private.”

Jack looked around again. Bit his lip. Kent waited.

”I run every day at ten. Half an hour. Sometimes more.”

Kent couldn’t keep the smile off his face. ”I’ll be here tomorrow.”

*

The Canadien snatched the puck from Rezzy’s stick on a turn, passed to a teammate before a fight could erupt, skated for the other side of the defensive zone. Between the pipes, Pops was down, glaring between the two of them. The power-play was almost over, and the attack would come before that.

Another pass, and Carly dove to the side, stuck out his stick, but it was too late. The puck flew past, the Canadien received, shot off again, moved just a tiny bit closer to the goal.

If anyone was going to shoot, it would be him.

There was no way he could know, not logically, but Kent still knocked into Sonny on their way to the defence, nodded at the fucker. There was no nod back, no sign that he’d noticed him, but he had. If Kent hadn’t known it instinctively, he did seconds later as the puck was passed again and the Canadien he’d nodded at lifted his stick and was promptly hit from behind.

The crowd drew in a collective breath as they fell onto the ice, the Canadien shocked, Sonny already screaming at him. A whistle blew, the refs skated up, and Kent leaned against the glass, supported his weight on his stick.

“ - in my fucking face - “

“ - he skated into _me_ \- “

“ - high-sticking if I’ve ever fucking - “

“ - you fucking blind or something?”

Kent snickered, hid it in his glove pretending to adjust his helmet. Typical fucking Sonny, blaming others for his own shit. Sometimes, it even worked.

“Jesus, you guys really do play dirty.”

A Canadien, bearded, chin on his own stick only a few feet from Kent. There was a glint in his eyes, painfully green, just a little too wide. Kent glanced away.

”Ignoring me, eh? You only care about pretty boys or something?”

Kent bit down on his mouth guard, kept his eye on the refs. Sonny and the Canadien were up, screaming more at each other than anyone else, all but oblivious to the discussions of their fates.

”Pretty boys like Zimmermann, eh?”

The men nodded at each other, turned their attentions to Sonny and Canadien. No, only one. The other skated towards centre ice.

“Too pretty to deal with the fucking sport – is that why he tried to kill himself? Don’t you all do that, freaks like you, kill yourselves? When’s it your - “

“Las Vegas Aces number 14, major penalty for fighting.”

A wave went through the crowd, and Kent followed it, settled on his side of the face-off circle before the puck could even be picked up. On the bench, Burke was yelling, but no one listened, no one cared, not with the players getting into position, Scrappy skating back out, Kent rushing the Canadien goalie and sending the puck in millimetres from his face.

Above them, the horn blared, but Kent barely heard it, just got back into position, ignored Burke gesturing at him to shift out, kept running. He was breathing hard, too hard, would feel it in his bones come morning, but morning was aeons away. Didn’t mean anything.

When he closed his eyes, he could still remember the feeling of Jack’s fist against his face. His lips. The way his helmet had knocked into Kent’s forehead the night they’d won the Memorial Cup, back when they’d been invincible. Immortal. How cold he’d felt in that bathroom.

But the cold hadn’t stayed. Kent touched him again, and he was warm, burned marks into them both as Kent’s lips settled on his neck. His head was swimming, shutting down from where Jack’s hands had crept up under his shirt, from the way Jack’s legs had instinctively spread for him as soon as they hit the bed.

”I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he whispered into the stark purple bruise, or maybe he didn’t, maybe the words went unsaid, because they never needed those, the two of them. They didn’t need anything at all.

Jack moaned, loud and unabashed in the silence of the hotel room, tore off a button or two as he pulled off Kent’s flannel, left a scratch down his shoulder blade.

He could tear him to shreds if that’s what he wanted. Bloody strips and sinew, raw bones glinting in the light. An exposed heart ready to be ripped out and swallowed down, finally settle where it already belonged.

Kent bit down on his shoulder, wrapped his hand around them both, and Jack screamed. His nails drew another line of blood down Kent’s back, blood that smeared onto white sheets as Jack pushed back against him. He wasn’t as strong as he’d been six months before, or maybe Kent had gotten stronger, because there was nothing Jack could do, no control he could take except wrap his hand around Kent’s, move with him, bite his collarbone, draw a new line of blood. And Kent bit back, tightened his hold on Jack’s hair until there were tears on his face that weren’t his own and Jack scratched back, and they both came, nails digging in too hard, screams dying in their throats.

A moment of perfect stillness.

The sheets were cold against Kent’s back, a shock to his system, and for a long second, he let himself lay there, just studying Jack’s face, flushed and satisfied, breathing as hard as he was. Then, he leaned forward to kiss him again, long and sweet. There was a soft sheen of sweat on Jack’s upper lip, a soft taste of copper where he’d bitten himself. Or Kent had bitten him.

Pulling back, Kent lay back down on his pillow, close enough to count Jack’s eyelashes if he wanted to. As if he hadn’t already. Beneath his hand, Jack’s chest rose and fell, deeper and slower with every second ticking by. Hard muscle, soft hair. Warm skin.

“When do you have to go back?”

“Couple hours.”

Jack nodded, ran a finger over the hand on his chest. “Do you like them?”

“The team?” Kent shrugged. “They’re fun. Bit of a motley crew, but we’re figuring it out. Might even make play-offs this year if we keep up our play.”

”Going for the Cup in your rookie year?”

”’Always reach for the highest point’, didn’t your Dad used to say something like that?”

Jack nodded. Breathed. His eyes had gone back to normal, no dilated pupils, just blue. Like the sky. Ice on a sunny winter day.

”I’ve missed you so fucking much, y’know that?”

Those blue eyes turned to him. Smiled, even if the rest of his face didn’t. Didn’t need to.

”I’ve missed you, too.”

Something burned its way up Kent’s throat, stole the breath from his lungs, the last hints of pleasure from the pit of his stomach, the taste of sweat from the tip on his tongue. Between one breath and the other, he pushed Jack down again, settled between his legs, pressed down hard enough to melt them together. Make them one again. Make Jack a writhing mess beneath him with marks that would stay even if Kent couldn’t.

Not yet.

-/ \\-

December arrived with little change in weather. Not that Kent had expected it. Time was easy to lose in Las Vegas, as he was probably not the first to discover.

His Ma had called three more times before finally stopping, Jack seven.

On the NHL’s website, there were forty-seven points next to his name.

The Aces’ rink was closed between the hours of eleven and five, but the zamboni driver had a key taped to the wall behind a dumpster. Kent wasn’t planning on reporting it.

”I didn’t know they had Christmas in Vegas,” he remarked to Scrappy one day from the couch, trying not to put pressure on the large bruise on the right side of his upper body. Fucking Stars.

In the kitchen, Scrappy looked up. ”Why shouldn’t there be?”

Kent shrugged. ”Just surprised is all. Vegas doesn’t seem real sometimes, y’know? Like we’re not connected to the real world here.” When he looked up, Scrappy had frowned, ceased his work. ”You’ve never felt that?”

”No.” Scrappy shook his head. ”Never.”

Kent forced a smile. ”Forget it, then. I’m going to bed. See ya tomorrow.”

The echoing ’see you’ was lost in the sound of a shutting door. 

*

The lights were glimmering overhead as Kent walked home. Or back. Calling Scrappy’s apartment home still felt like too far a stretch, but it was a thought Kent didn’t press.

The sky had turned dark hours past, but he walked slowly down the street just off the Strip, looked at window after window to admire each colourful display of decorations after the other. Scrappy had put up Christmas stuff in his apartment, gone pretty overboard for Kent’s liking, but he wasn’t one to complain. It was festive. And it wasn’t his fucking apartment.

Perhaps Christmas really did exist in Vegas.

And Hanukkah, the small hanukkiah in his bag reminded him.

Why he’d bought, he had no idea. One minute he’d been walking, minding his own business, the next a woman in the shop laughed as he asked if they had matches, too, gave him a box on the house. She’d been pretty. He couldn’t remember what she looked like.

“Happy Hanukkah!” she’d called out after him.

”Ha – you, too.” Kent had turned his head and forced a smile, then left as quickly as his legs could carry him.

When the door of Scrappy’s apartment finally closed behind him, there was a sting in his lungs, a burn in his eyes like he’d doused them with pepper.

”Hello?” he called out, waited exactly five seconds for an answer that never came except in the form of Scrappy’s dog padding up to him, tongue lolling and a look of total innocence that could only belong to an animal or a child. Kent squatted down to give her a quick scratch behind the ears before walking in.

Despite its size, the hanukkiah was heavy in his bag.

He threw his workout clothes into the washing machine and pulled out his skates to air out. After a second of thought and a look at the bag placed gingerly against the wall, he stood and marched into the kitchen to empty the dishwasher. Managed as far back towards his room before turning back to pull out the vacuum cleaner from its closet. Last he looked, there’d been dust bunnies under his bed. Scrappy probably didn’t like that.

There were dust bunnies under the couch, too. Kent did the entire living room.

When he thought of taking a dish cloth to the kitchen counter, just in case Scrappy hadn’t cleaned it meticulously that morning, he paused, set his jaw, returned to his room.

The bag was still placed against the wall there, glared at him like it could stare it into his soul. Kent looked back as he stripped out of his normal clothes and put on a dress shirt, matching trousers. He had to give up on pulling a comb through his hair halfway through, pulled on one of his nicer caps instead before taking a deep breath and finally opening the bag.

Despite how rushed he’d been when he threw it down, the hanukkiah looked fine. Pulling it out with careful fingers, he placed it on the empty window still and opened the bag of candles. They fit, somehow.

It took three tries to strike the match, but eventually a small fire erupted. Kent stared at it for a second before lighting the candles, made sure each flame was large and strong before moving onto the next. Nearly burned his fingers.

When they were all lit, Kent sat down on the floor. Outside, behind the hanukkiah, the usual lights were glinting, and the faint booming of a bass could be heard if he concentrated enough. He didn’t. He sat, and he looked, and he didn’t cry.

He was proud of that last one.

How many minutes, or hours, came and went before a door slammed and Kent snapped out of it was impossible to tell. His legs had fallen asleep, and he didn’t dare rise as Scrappy greeted his dog, both sounding equally excited, and a bag hit the floor.

”Hey, Parse! You home?”

Kent cleared his throat, shattered the last of the feeling that had been in the room. ”Yeah.”

A moment of silence followed, but he didn’t hear Scrappy move.

”Is anything burning? Have you cooked something?”

”No.”

Scrappy began walking, then, first to the kitchen, then around the living room, finally stopping in front of Kent’s door. He knocked, loud enough to startle Kent, before sticking his head in. ”Are you bur – oh. Sorry. Um. Happy Hanukkah?”

Kent didn’t even get the time to turn around before the door was shut again, leaving him alone in the room on half-asleep legs and the candles half burnt down behind him.

”Happy Hanukkah,” he whispered to no one in particular.

“Happy Hanukkah,” he told Jack the next time he called.

On the other end was silence. Kent could almost hear the frown.

”That was last week.”

”Right. Sorry, I just wanted to hear - “

”It’s fine, it doesn’t matter. I’ll … good luck against the Maple Leafs. Tomorrow.”

In the emptiness of his room, Kent forced a smile. ”Thanks. And … Merry Christmas, Zimms. Have fun in Boston.”

There was a small sound at the other end. Possibly a smile. ”Bonne nuit, Kenny.”

Kent closed his eyes. ”Goodnight, Zimms.”

The call ended. For maybe a minute, maybe two, Kent sat on his bed, looked out the window on the bustling city. Then, a small thing inside of him, the final little piece of something he hadn’t realised was still there, shattered, and for the first time since that night in June, Kent cried.

-/ \\-

A step to the side brought Kent in the puck’s trajectory, allowed a feint around Sonny and a pass to Bubbles. A few steps forward, a glance at Rezzy coming in, and the puck returned. A sudden step behind, a turn to the left, running like hell, and he was in the offensive zone, stepped over the blue line with the puck by his stick. There were D-men coming in, too slow, always too slow, and Kent rushed forward, eyes locked on Pops’.

Split seconds. Within those, he lived.

“Блять!”

Kent grinned, exhausted, sweaty, victorious. Alive.

“Next time!” someone yelled, slapped Pops’ shoulder. Someone hit Kent, too, and he grinned back, returned to the face-off circle. Bent down.

Ran.

“You need to relax one day,” Pops said afterwards, threw his towel at Kent, who threw hit back. “Make rest of us look like дерьмо.”

“Maybe you just need to work harder.”

“Snob,” Swoops muttered.

“Slut,” Kent countered, threw his bag over his shoulder. On the other side of the room, Scrappy was still getting dressed, but Kent didn’t mind waiting. Better than staying.

The hallways were empty, always were that time of day, before the rink opened to the public, and Kent inhaled the silence. Rare in a city like Las Vegas. Breached as he got to the parking garage by a sharp, monotonous sound that echoed through the room.

It was common knowledge amongst the Aces that Marina Ivaneva Teterya, head of the Aces’ PR and reason the stiletto heal could most definitely be used as a weapon - or the stapler, or her nail scissors, or just her eyes - didn’t own a car. Some said she was an environmental freak, others that she’d been too busy at fifteen to get a driver’s license. Obviously no one had ever asked. They liked their heads too much.

But there she was, in a long-sleeved tartan dress and stilettos, leaning against Scrappy’s car, eyebrow raised in as much a greeting as he was going to get.

“Good morning to you, too,” Kent said, drew his bag further up his shoulder. “What can I - “

”You going home this Christmas?”

Impatient bitch. ”What about it?”

”You didn’t go home during Thanksgiving. Or the times you guys played in New York.”

”As if I’d be allowed out on a fucking roadie.”

Something almost smile-like crept onto her face. “You went out in Montréal.”

“How do you - “

“So Christmas, you going home? Or is there something I need to know about?”

_Bitch_. “’course not.”

”You sure?”

Kent smirked. ”Unless y’wanna come over and make sure. I can think of a thing or two we could do Christmas morning.”

Her face hardened. ”Good to hear, Parson. Have a good one, then.”

”You, too, miss Teterya.”

”And if I hear you say anything like that again, you’ll be out of here on your fucking ass and elbows before you can as much as say workplace sexual harassment, okay? And if you _ever_ say shit like that to _me_ again, I’ll cut off that pretty little cock of yours with a rusty piece of glass. Have I made myself clear?”

Kent grinned. ”Crystal.”

With a last smile, thin and fake, she turned on her heel, walked out with hips swaying in a way that would’ve made a lesser man cry. Or worship at her feet.

Had his Ma been there, she would’ve yelled at him for an hour. Or sat in the passenger seat with a stone-face and not talked to him for hours, disappointment rolling off like the perfume she always wore, roses that had once been peaches but would never be again. He could almost smell it, sweet and nauseating and enough to make him want to punch the fucking wall.

She called. He didn’t pick up.

Instead, he took another look at the entrance of the club he’d looked up in the middle of the night before, carefully deleting the browser history afterwards. He’d been standing outside for what was probably nearing ten minutes now, looked like a fucking idiot judging by the looks the bouncer sent him every once in a while.

Or maybe he looked like someone about to go in and shoot the place up.

Then again, the t-shirt was probably a little too tight for that.

Yet another guy walked in, tall and tan and wearing what had to be a leather harness stolen from a horse. Kent tried to hide a grimace.

Fuck it, he thought, walked in as well.

The bouncer took one look at him before putting up his hand. ”ID, please.”

Kent held it out. ”Your website said you let in underage guys,” he said, immediately kicked himself. Way to sound even fucking younger than he already was.

”We do,” the bouncer said, gave Kent his license back and grabbed his hand. Kent’s stomach swooped, but the bouncer took no notice, just stamped his hand and nodded for him to go in.

”Thanks,” Kent said, like an idiot, hauled his ass inside.

The club was darkly lit, for some reason red, and Kent wanted to leave and stay forever.

There were guys dancing. Together. Some shirtless, some close to. Kent’s eyes fell on a couple kissing each other in the middle as if trying to devour each other whole. At some point, a guy with a beard gently nudged him out of the way, gave him a kind smile before disappearing in the mass of people.

Kent cleared his throat. An hour, he reminded himself. Just until Jack returned from Boston and he could call again.

The bartender didn’t even glance at his hand as he ordered, but he wasn’t taking any chances. A call to the GM’s office about their top rookie trying to buy alcohol in a gay bar was the last thing Kent wanted, just above getting his throat sliced open on the ice.

Drink in hand, Kent had no idea where to go, ended up sipping it leaning against the bar. The bartender didn’t seem to mind, didn’t even look at him. At some point, another guy walked up to stand next to him, too close for it to be accidental, but Kent kept his eyes ahead, ignored the creeping heat in his face. Blue eyes. Blond.

He ordered another drink, sipped it with his eyes on the moving men, the sweat glinting in the overhead lights, the curve of muscles and chest hair and glitter.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. Scrappy. Home within an hour. Pocketing it again, Kent downed the rest of his drink, glanced one last time at the guy at the bar now chatting with another.

Good for him.

He left the club as he’d entered it, nearly stumbled over his own feet in front of the bouncer. A quick look revealed him to be looking the other way, but Kent still wanted to fucking die. The walk back was short but lasted a lifetime. Night in Las Vegas was no less bright than the day, but the air, still filled with smoke and smells he couldn’t identify, brushed over Kent’s skin without burning.

He’d missed the cold.

As soon as he turned the key in the door, Scrappy’s dog was on him. Giving her a quick scratch behind the ear, he called out.

No answer.

It was odd, how quiet the apartment got when Scrappy wasn’t in it. Even the dog was more lively when he was there. Of course she was, Kent thought as he slipped on a flannel and returned to the living room, throwing himself down on the couch. He was the light of her life.

The dog patted over, sat down next to his head and whined.

Kent looked over. ”Whaddaya want?”

Another whine.

”You’re not sitting here with me.” He gestured at the couch. ”This is my territory now.”

She turned her head, looked at him with large, wet eyes.

”I’m not giving in.”

She whined, longer this time.

” … okay fine.” He patted the spot at his feet and she jumped up, smile back on her face. Or as much of a smile as a dog could have.

He was getting too fucking soft. Still, she was a nice heat against his feet. 

12.16 PM. To ‘Jack’

_~~i miss u~~ _

Keys hit the front door lock, stopped for a second before hitting again. By the second stop, a man was laughing and another swearing until the keys finally went in and the door opened. In stumbled Scrappy, Carly in his wake, smirking his fucking face off.

As his eyes fell on Kent, Scrappy’s face lit up. “You’re friends now!”

Kent frowned, looked down at his feet where Scrappy’s dog was lying, tail wiggling happily and tongue out. “We’re not friends. Just roomies.”

”Roomies,” Scrappy repeated with a dopey smile on his face. Next to him, Carly snickered, whispered something to Scrappy whose eyes widened. A second later, Carly plopped himself down in the armchair closest to Kent, smirking even wider than before.

“What?”

“Nice stamp, kid. Fun evening without the grown-ups, eh?”

For a second, Kent’s frown deepened. Then, realisation hit, and his phone almost fell to the floor as he clasped his other hand over the stamp.

”Wow, relax, kiddo, I’m all about you being out having fun,” Carly said, lifted his hands. ”I’m just a little hurt is all.”

”About what?”

”That you didn’t tell us!”

Bile rose in Kent’s throat, threatened to take his voice away. “Tell you what?”

”That you were going out. Duh.” Carly shook his head. ”We would’ve gone with ya! The more the merrier! And you know how it is, you’ve more luck with chicks with buddies around – makes ya look better if you bring the team. ’cause they’re uglier.”

”I don’t need to bring you guys to get laid.”

Carly rolled his eyes. ”No, ’cause you’re young and cute and girls like that shit. ’specially your round cheeks.”

”I don’t have round cheeks.”

”Sure you don’t. But I’m just saying, bring us along next time, yeah?”

Kent scoffed, heart still beating out of his chest. ”You wish. I don’t want you spoiling my game.”

”You’re a kid, kid. You don’t have any fucking game.” Carly nodded to the side. ”Like Scrappy there. No fucking game whatsoever. But he doesn’t have the excuse of being young.”

”Fuck you!” Scrappy mumbled and promptly puked into the flower pot next to him.

Carly let out a howl of laughter. ”Fucking hell, man! You cannot hold your liquor anymore, holy _shit_!”

He walked over, pulled Scrappy up by the bicep. ”I’mma just get him cleaned up a bit,” he said to Kent, laughed again, shook his head. ”Fucking idiot,” he muttered with what almost sounded like affection in his voice as they half-walked, half-stumbled towards the master bathroom.

Kent’s eyes followed them until they were out of sight and he bolted up from the couch so hard the dog nearly fell off, made a beeline for his own bathroom. The ink of the stamp was resilient, but he got it smeared unreadable after fifteen minutes of scrubbing, all spent listening for the return of either Carly and Scrappy. Neither came, nothing but yelling and howls of laughter.

By the time he put down the soap, the skin of his hand was red and raw.

Drawing in a deep breath, he turned and vomited up his drink.

-/ \\-

Kent rolled over in bed, muffled his laughter in the pillow. In the bathroom adjoined to the hotel room, the water was still running.

”I couldn’t tell what was more red,” Jack continued, laughing just as hard as Kent. ”Her face or her dress.”

”Didn’t security do anything?”

There was a short silence on the other end. Kent’s grin widened. Jack had shaken his head again.

”The lady stormed out before anyone could notice what had happened.”

”You Maman’s a fucking badass.”

Another silence. A nod. ”She is. But it wasn’t very nice - “

”Zimms, she threw red wine at a lady who called you a crackhead. Just enjoy it.”

”Right.”

There was another short bout of silence. Jack’s breathing stood out clear, like he still hadn’t learned how to hold a phone when talking into it. Kent closed his eyes.

”Who are you playing today?”

”The Ducks. We’re gonna beat the shit out of ’em.”

”I hope you do.”

”Of course we will. Those fuckers didn’t stand a fucking chance last time.”

On the other end, Jack hummed.

”I’ll get a goal for ya,” Kent said softly. ”The first one I make, that’s for you.”

It took for the water to shut off before Jack finally replied. ”You think you’re getting more than one.”

”I’ve done it before.”

”I know, Kenny.”

Kent opened his mouth, but before he got to say something, anything, Rezzy slammed open the bathroom door. ”Get that dildo out of your ass, Parser, no one wants to see that!”

Kent rolled his eyes. ”I’ll call ya back.”

”Good luck.”

”Thanks. I l- I’ll talk to you later.”

The call ended.

”Your Mom?” Rezzy asked.

”You fucking asshole.”

”It was a fucking joke! Haven’t you ever heard of those?”

Kent rolled his eyes again, sent Jack a quick apology.

“You coming out with us this time?”

“What?”

“Hitting town,” Rezzy said, fastening his belt. “Painting the town red. You missed the New Year’s party. Fuck, the _chicks_ there.”

“You’re married.”

Rezzy shrugged. “Nothing like a new year to make ladies make bad decisions.”

“Not just ladies,” Kent muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“So, you coming or what?”

He should sleep. Watch tape. Ice the Bruins-shaped bruise on his hip. “Sure.”

The club was darkly lit and loud, cold, somehow, despite the mass of bodies and the alcohol in the air. There was no stamp on Kent’s hand, not this time, but a glass of whiskey, sweet and bitter and too fucking cold. It burned his stomach, left frost bites on his lips that a woman with soft breath and softer skin ran her tongue over. Didn’t seem to notice.

Kent pulled back, shock clear in his eyes, but before he could remember the men around him, the women, he stepped forward again, pressed his lips to the woman’s and let her heat wash over him. And off. Water off a duck’s back, heat off the scorching ice inside of him that still tasted of Jack.

She was good kisser. Confident, submissive, soft dress and softer skin, a gentle moan drowned out by whiskey as he rejoined the Aces at the bar.

“Shit, and here I thought you were a fucking virgin.”

“Not a virgin,” Kent said, accepted another drink. “Just Catholic.”

Lutz frowned. “Really?”

Kent shrugged. “Once upon a time. Who needs God when you’ve got hockey.”

Barking out a laugh, Lutz slapped Pops’ back, Kent’s, downed his drink and ordered another. Eyed the bartender’s tits as she bent down. And Kent sipped his whiskey, made out with another lady or two, closed the door to the men’s room with a quiet click drowning out the waves of music. At the sink, Sonny looked up, turned on the tap. Washed his hands. Sniffed.

“You okay?”

And that was enough whiskey for him. Shit you didn’t ask your fucking teammates.

“All good, Parse,” Sonny said, turned off the tap. Shook his hands. “Just gettin’ a cold or somethin’.”

Kent nodded, and Sonny nodded, and they looked away. Kent took a piss, Sonny left. The water was warm on his hands, almost warm enough, froze in the Anaheim night air, the even colder bed in the hotel room Rezzy didn’t stumble into until four hours later. Through closed eyes, a pillow half over his face, Rezzy swore, hit his foot against the edge of his own bed, against Kent’s. Burped. The bed creaked as he fell onto it, creaked as the snoring began, and Kent pushed the pillow harder against his ears, waited for warmth to set in.

Nothing came.

*

Stomping his feet, Kent pushed his gloved hands firmer into his coat pockets, cursed whoever decided to establish the country of Canada. The city of Vancouver. The Olympic village.

Winter games, his fucking _ass_.

Inside the rink, men and women in American jerseys yelled at one another, bought beer and food, buzzed with restless energy matched in their Swiss peers. The game would begin soon, half an hour, puck-drop and whistles and blood on the ice. Goals, with a little luck.

The commentators’ entrance wasn’t far off where Kent was standing, closer to him than the spectators, the crowd, and for a moment, there was a head of dark hair, down-turned eyes. Brown, crow’s feet. And blue, younger, cheekbones for miles.

Kent’s stomach swooped, and he took a step closer to the entrance, waited with bated breath as Bob said something to his son, laughed at something, turned his back to Kent. Above his shoulder, Jack nodded, stuffed his hands further down his pockets, ducked his head. Hid beneath his cap. Pens. Kent bit his lip, felt the skin break beneath his tooth, tasted copper as blue eyes flickered and settled on his, widened impossibly. Licking the blood away, Kent nodded towards the water behind him, the silence. The empty parking lot.

Above his father’s shoulder, Jack said something, nodded at Bob’s words back. Pulled his cap further down as Bob went inside the rink, glanced around, opened the door only enough to slip through. His face was flushed, from the heat inside or the sudden cold, embarrassment or surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

Kent shrugged, pretended he could feel his feet. And his fingers aching to reach out. That his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. “Watching some good fucking hockey. And visiting an old friend whose Dad knows a lot about it.”

“How did you … don’t the Aces have practices?”

“Not that many. And I may have faked an injury.”

Something flickered across Jack’s face, anger, confusion. Exasperation. “Kenny, that’s so fucking stupid.”

“It’s two weeks, Zimms. I’ll live. And we don’t have any games, so it won’t matter.”

Jack glanced around again. “Are there any Aces here?”

“Nah, we’re not that good. They’re all back in Vegas. Partying it up.”

“You’re in the NHL.”

“It’s Vegas. How’s your Dad liking his job?”

“He’s done this before, Kenny. You’ve watched ESPN.”

“Sure.” Kent grinned, stomped his feet. Cursed the fucking cold. “Hey, what’ll you be doing during his games?”

“Jack frowned. “Papa’s not playing.”

“I know that, idiot, I mean while he talks. Commentates. That shit. What’ll you be doing?”

“Watching the games.”

“Cheer for Canada?”

“Of course.”

Kent grinned, glanced again, grabbed Jack by the hips and pressed him against the wall. Jack’s eyes widened, fluttered closed as Kent brushed their lips together, soft at first, a nip to his bottom lip, hard enough to swallow a groan that wasn’t his. Against his cheeks, Jack’s hands were warm. Bled into his skin and settled where a part of him had already burrowed. Finally.

“I can think of a couple of other things you could do,” Kent whispered, brushed their noses together. Even his nose was warm, blessedly, blessedly warm. “When it’s not Canada playing.”

Jack’s eyes widened again, flickered from Kent’s eyes to his lips, a flush to his cheeks as they flickered back up. The grip on Kent’s collar tightened, threatened to rip the coat apart, and Kent ran his own over them, twirled their fingers together. Pressed a kiss to Jack’s gloves. His lips.

“Papa will wonder where I am,” Jack whispered, warm breath, warm lips.

“Say you’re tired,” Kent whispered back, kissed him again. “Come see me when you can.”

Jack let out a shaky exhale. He was hard, getting there, at least, and Kent knew he’d won.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, and Kent licked the words from his lips. Sucked it from his tongue.

“I’ll wait.”

*

They fell onto the bed in a mix of limbs, clothes thrown on the floor, the lamp, the window still. There had been words, at some point, forgotten now, swallowed down and torn to pieces. Underneath Kent’s hands, Jack was warm, a fucking furnace, and he pressed himself against him, soaked up as much of the heat as possible, ran his hands over every inch of skin brought to light. Sighed as Jack bit down on his lip, groaned as their groins pressed against one another, separated only by light layers of cotton swiftly removed and thrown to the floor.

With a last kiss to Jack’s lips, Kent moved to his neck, sucked in a bruise, left another on his collarbone, his peck, his stomach, the soft roll above his hip that hadn’t been there the year before. Would disappear again. Moving again, Kent pressed his face against Jack’s thigh, bit down just on the brink of breaking the skin, felt pre-cum stain the side of his face, drip into his hair. He smelled of salt, Jack, salt and musk and desire, and Kent bit him again. Moved to mouth at the spot where his dick met his hip.

“Wait.” Breathy and desperate. Broken. “Is this safe?”

Kent frowned. “Is what safe?”

Jack gestured downwards, at his dick, at Kent, and something tightened in the pit of his stomach.

“Of course it is.”

Before Jack could say any more, he took him in mouth, swallowed down as far as he could, pushed down the urge to vomit. Dug his nails into Jack’s thighs. Moved. And Jack relaxed as well, surged upwards, tightened his fingers in Kent’s hair and tugged until there were tears in his eyes and an ache in his jaw and warm liquid in his mouth.

Jack fell against the sheets, breaths hard and ragged, and Kent let him rest, just long enough to walk over the suitcase and pick up the hastily packed bottle of lube. Settling between Jack’s legs, he pushed them further apart, started working him open. Beneath him, Jack whined, stiffened, but Kent shushed him, ran a hand over his thigh, his dick, pressed a kiss to his lips. And Jack relaxed, lolled his head back, closed his eyes, allowed Kent to lift his hips and press into him, one burning inch at a time until their hips were flush and every inch of his body was on fire.

As if he’d had anyone else since the last time they were together.

And if Jack had – and he hadn’t, he _wouldn’t_ \- there was no way he remembered him, not with the way he screamed as Kent started moving, rough from the start, a merciless pace that left long, red stripes down his back and Jack sobbing into his ear as they both came, Jack on Kent’s stomach, Kent buried deep inside of him.

They fell apart together, and they came to together, Jack on his back, legs still spread, Kent with his head on his chest, counting the heartbeats underneath.

“Papa will wonder … “ Jack swallowed, sat up, flinched in pain. There was blood on the sheets, his or Kent’s, who knew. Blood and semen.

“Go shower first, you reek of sex.”

Something flickered across Jack’s face, something that was almost a smile, and he hid it against Kent’s lips, pushed it into his mouth, and for a moment, Kent let himself think it was the same words he pressed back.

He was asleep before Jack left, woke up to an empty bed and a city he’d never visited before.

*

Canada played seven games total, the US six. The last game was the same, the final, and Kent watched it from the sidelines, Jack just off the commentator’s box. His eyes lit up, bright even across the rink, and when Canada won, over-time, a good fucking game, Kent couldn’t fucking care less. Not until they were in his room again, and he was inside of him – gentle, this time, he was gentle, too – and Jack clung to him like he’d never let go. Like he never wanted to.

And Kent kissed him, through the pain, the pleasure, the afterglow. Eternity.

“What’re your plans next year?”

Jack cracked open an eye. Sighed against Kent’s cheek. “I don’t know, Kenny. It’s all … I don’t know. Right now.”

Keeping his face neutral, Kent pressed a kiss to his chest. Ran a hand through his chest hair. “But you’re coming to the NHL, right? Eventually?”

For a long moment, Jack didn’t say anything. Long enough for Kent’s stomach to drop.

“Zimms - “

“I said I don’t know, Kenny, okay?”

“No.” Kent sat up. “No, that’s not fucking okay. It’s – remember what we used to talk about? The NHL’s all we’ve ever dreamed of, all _you’ve_ ever dreamed of, and don’t fucking tell me it isn’t, I know you!”

“I want to play, believe me, I do! I’m just - “ he sighed. “I’m not the same as … I’m not the guy I used to be. I don’t know when I can play again, _if_ I can play again. Professionally. And when – if – I can, I need to figure out, am I, am I gonna be a free agent, or am I trying the draft again, or if there’s some other way I can – fuck, Kenny, it’s … it’s so fucking much!”

The rise and fall of his chest had quickened, risen along with his voice. It was so familiar Kent wanted to scream. “You can’t seriously be stressing ‘bout that shit – fuck, you’re Bad Bob Zimmermann’s son, any team would take you if you asked!”

Jack flinched, full-body, hands tightening in the sheets.

“I have another year in Vegas, more if I renew my contract, but I can go anywhere after this season, and so can you! No one’ll care what happened at the draft, they’ll want our play, the one-timer - “

“Who, Kenny?”

“Fucking everyone! Fuck, it’s – it doesn’t fucking matter. Everyone. The Pens, the Bruins, the Canadiens – you can stay close to your parents, or – or the Rangers, I can show you New York, the Islanders, who fucking cares? All we have to prove is that we still can. That you still can.”

“But what if I can’t?”

Kent kissed him, dry-lipped and hard. “You’ll have to get back in shape, but we can do it. I know we can. It’ll be easier this way, too, you’ll talk to teams, and I’ll talk, and we’ll find somewhere that’ll take us both. No trading, no draft. Just hockey. Just us. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Jack repeated.

“Not a fucking thing,” Kent agreed, kissed him again.

-/ \\-

The tests came back clear. As if he’d expected anything else.

-/ \\-

The loss to the Kings was unsurprising, hurt in the moment but gone the next day. Nothing they couldn’t handle with six more weeks until playoffs. In with a chance this year, Burke had started to say, eyes glinting like a kid on Christmas day. Didn’t let them forget it.

“Go for Jackson,” Carly said through a bite of his sandwich. ”He’s their weakest link, trust me.”

“You’ve said that before,” Sonny said, picked out a pickle and threw it at the bin. Missed. “And yet … “

“How do you know?” Bubbles asked. Swallowed first.

”I played with him in juniors and it wasn’t really a secret that he was, you know … ” Carly lifted his eyebrows, pointedly bent his wrist. Kent forced down an eye roll.

A couple guys hummed. One barked out a laugh.

”I don’t get it,” Scrappy said.

”He’s a fucking fag, dude. Just hit ’im hard and he’ll fall over, D-man or not. Or whip your dick out at ’im – he’d probably drop his stick to suck it!”

“Didn’t he break your nose last year?” Sonny asked, threw another pickle at Carly. “After you called him a cocksucker?”

“Don’t remember,” Carly replied, threw the pickle back. “Don’t think so.”

“Yeah, he did,” Scrappy said. “There was so much blood the nurse asked for needle and thread before you were brought in. She thought he’d ripped your nose clean off.”

“See this right here?” Carly pointed at his fellow vets, huffed into his sandwich. “That’s some grade-A bullying’s what it is.”

“Sounds like chirping to me,” Swoops said.

“Sounds like a fucking idiot,” Kent said, swallowed down the last of his water. “Picking a fight with a guy that big. Fag or not.”

“You’d know,” Carly grinned.

“True. I did play Swoops a couplea times. Wasn’t that impressive, though.”

“At least you didn’t have to look down to keep someone from scoring,” Swoops said.

“At least I actually got goals,” Kent shot back, rose from the table with a slap to his back. “And I still do.”

The yelling followed him out, echoed through the empty halls, faded as the rink spread out before him, torn up and battered from the morning’s practice. Home, except home was still blue eyes and warm arms, calloused hands and soft smiles.

Setting his jaw, ignoring the pain between his shoulder blades, Kent tied up his skates, took a quick lap around the rink before grabbing a bucket of pucks. The zamboni wouldn’t come in for another half hour, the public skate not for another whole. He’d be done before that, always was, shot out whatever feelings burned beneath his skin, turned him to ice, refused to leave him the _fuck_ alone.

The first puck hit the upper right corner of the goal, the second the upper left. Right and left, left and right, never quite monotonous, not the way Jack had been able to do it. Complementary, someone had once said, although not about their practices. Complementary and synchronised. Fucking beautiful, and Kent had always agreed. A forest fire and a warm embrace. Hot chocolate left on the porch in the middle of winter, and Kent ached to feel it burn beneath his skin again, burn until he felt warm in the deepest corners of his bones. Beneath his fingers. Around him and inside of him and everywhere their feet touched ground.

Soon. And in the meantime, he just had to play. Steady voice, steady hands, worse places to live, better places to die.

*

“We’ll be in Montréal next week,” Kent said, pulled his clothes from the washing machine.

“Yeah?”

“Yup.” He smiled, opened the drier, stuffed the clothes in. “Can’t wait to see ya.”

“I - “ Jack cut himself off. Went silent, silent save for his breathing, and then even that was gone.

Kent frowned. “What is it?”

“ … I’ll be out of town next week.”

Quiet, barely above a whisper, nails down Kent’s face. “I see.”

“I’m sorry, it’s … one of Maman’s charity dinners. I promised her I’d go months ago. I can’t back out.”

“You’ve ditched stuff for me before.”

“I know, I … I promised her, Kenny. I’ve hurt her so - “

“I know you fucking have, you hurt me, too. Just … what’s the charity?”

Silence. Silence, silence, silence, and Kent was choking on it. “Women’s opportunities in film.”

The drier shut, echoed through the apartment, loud enough for Jack to flinch. “Good cause. Have fun.”

“Kenny, I - “

“Have fun, Zimms.”

He ended the call, pushed in the buttons on the drier, slammed the door shut behind him. Glared at Scraps in the living room until he looked back at his book.

*

The Canadien fell as he was, large and heavy, a ripple on the ice and a puck at Kent’s stick. Side-stepping the fucker, he brought it forward, evaded another Canadien and passed to Rezzy, passed to Scrappy, passed to Sonny, who hit the boards with a groan. And Kent swooped in again, grabbed the puck, kept running. His thighs were beyond burning, so warm they were cold, his breath fire in his throat, blue fire, and Kent burned with it. Burned to a crisp and rose from the ashes, kept running and spread them to the wind. In the corners of his vision, black and gold and red and blue blurred together until he could see nothing but the white in the goalie’s eyes, white that swiftly moved to the side, followed by the rest of the goalie’s body as he dove towards the puck.

Kent crashed against the goal post right as the horn blew, a second following shortly afterwards. The fall knocked his helmet clean off, but he didn’t see where it ended up. To his right, the Canadiens goalie got back on his feet, sent a bolt of fear shooting through Kent’s body until he followed the man’s gaze. To his left, Lutz came to a halt, sprayed a small wave of ice onto his jersey. They locked eyes, and a small thrill went down Kent’s spine. He swallowed, looked towards centre ice where the refs were skating up to each other.

”Good goal?” he asked, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat, tried again, a third time when Lutz didn’t hear him.

Beneath his helmet, Lutz’ face cracked into a grin, opened up a wound on his lip from an earlier fight. ”Not a fucking chance, kid. But we might still get it.”

Kent nodded, looked back at the refs. His wrist was throbbing, felt unnervingly hot from where it had stifled his fall. When he lifted it, a couple drops of blood remained on the ice. The glove had fallen off. His hand was flushed against the ice. Burning.

As the refs skated towards a booth at the side, more Aces joined in by the Canadiens’ goal. Some sent Kent a look or two, but he stayed seated. Licked his lip. Tasted copper.

There were no words, nothing to say as the refs argued, pointed, shook their heads. When one finally skated back onto the ice, headed for centre, Kent sucked in a breath, felt the crowd around him do the same. They watched together, hundreds upon hundreds of eyes, as he came to a halt, raised both arms in the air.

”After video review, we’ve got a good goal.”

A roar, spectators and players both, drowning out the Canadiens closing their eyes, hitting each other’s shoulders. Next time. _As if_.

They shook hands as always, a little too hard by some, a little too quick by others. Kent didn’t care. His hand burned, as did the back of his throat. His entire fucking body. Once in the dressing room, he wasted no time stripping out of his gear, turning the water as cold as it would get. Breathed in the beginning frost bites.

Victory tasted like sweat when he returned, sweat and testosterone and rubber. He dried himself off as quickly as he could, ignored the way his entire body shivered, the clacking of his teeth. The hand that came down on his back.

“Fuck, what kinda goal was that? You trynna kill yourself, too, or something?”

Kent’s hands stilled, and he looked up at Cary’s grinning face. A grin that almost seemed to crack at the edges. “The fuck didja just say?”

“Come on, man, take a fucking joke.”

“That’s your idea of a joke?”

“Parser’s right,” Swoops said. “Suicide’s nothing to joke about. My aunt - “

“Zimms didn’t try and kill himself, I already fucking toldja that.”

“ - was a very, euh - ”

Carly huffed. “Come on, kid, he OD’ed on cocaine. You have to admit that - “

”He didn’t overdose on cocaine. He didn’t do drugs – how many fucking times do I have to say that before you get it?”

“I know he was your best friend and everything, but you gotta face the facts some day. He was doing some fucked up shit.”

“Carly - “

“And, I mean, one thing’s the top draft prospect not being able to control his own fucking habit. Fuck, imagine if he’d gotten you involved? It would’ve been a fucking spectacle – ha, not that it wasn’t already. Sometimes it can be a good thing to not know someone as well as you think.”

The self-satisfied, just-telling-it-as-I-see-it smile was still on his face when Kent’s fist collided with it, and the dressing room erupted into chaos. Scrappy crossed the room in seconds, placed himself firmly between the two of them before any more punches could fall. Someone yelled, another gasped, and Carly yelled somehow above them all.

”What the fuck?”

Before Kent could show him exactly the fuck what, Swoops grabbed him from the back and forced them both away. ”Time to relax, Parser,” he murmured, way too fucking close to his ear, and had his arms not been in a vice-like grip, Kent would’ve punched him, too. Punched all of them, the selfish, blind, _stupid_ motherfuckers.

”Jesus fucking Christ, Parse!”

“Fuck you,” Kent spat, forced himself from Swoops’ grip and stalked out of the room, only then remembering where they were. Montréal. Canada.

Perhaps he could find a train, a bus, something that could take him to Jack. Except Jack wasn’t there, no one was who’d welcome him, no one except Canadiens fans ready to finish what the D-man couldn’t, slice his fucking throat and leave him bleeding in the gutter. Like the fucking faggot that he was.

The spot next to the dumpsters was empty, always was these days, and Kent drew his arms closer around him, resisted the urge to fall back against the wall. The cold wouldn’t bother him, hadn’t since Rimouski, but who the fuck knew what shit might stick to his skin. Burrow and lay eggs. Gritting his teeth against the cold, Kent closed his eyes, squeezed until he saw spots, and the spots went away, and there was only darkness. Darkness and the sounds of a city that paid him no mind.

When the door opened, he didn’t feel the cold anymore, didn’t feel anything at all, not even the hand on his shoulder. Tentative, perhaps. Rough, for all he cared.

“Here.”

Kent opened his eyes, lifted his arms from each other and from his stomach with a sickening sound, accepted the shirt.

“Fuck, it’s cold out here,” Scrappy said. Shivered.

“Not, shit,” Kent said, but no sound came over his lips. He slipped the shirt on with shaking arms.

”That was one hell of a punch.”

As if they were talking about the weather. Kent didn’t answer.

”But if I can be honest, you kinda suck at it. Has no one ever taught you how to do it properly?”

There were bruises on his knuckles. A slight swelling.

”It’s ’cause you’re too small for fighting in games, right? That’s what I’d think as a coach. ’Teaching him would be a waste of time’,” he mocked in the worst falsetto Kent had ever heard. ”I can teach you, if you want. In case you feel like punching someone else some time.”

Kent shrugged. Curled his hand into a fist, uncurled it when the pain got too much.

“Can we go in first, though? It’s really fucking cold.”

It was. It really was. With a nod, Kent followed Scrappy back inside. Pretended he didn’t feel Carly’s glare on the back of his neck for the ride to the hotel. That he wasn’t grateful it wasn’t the blade of his skate.

*

“Kenny, what - “

“You weren’t at that dinner, were ya?”

“It’s three in the – what’re you - “

“I looked through the pictures, Zimms, from the dinner, and you weren’t in a single fucking one of them. Don’t even fucking try and lie to me again, you weren’t there!”

“I didn’t – Kenny, I was - “

“You _lied_ to me, to – why didja lie, Zimms? Huh?”

“Kenny, I – I was at home, yes, but I, it was - “

“You didn’t want me to come.”

“That’s not what I’m – I was - “

“If ya don’t want me, just fucking say it next time! I can handle a fucking no, I’m not – I’m not _you_! Zimms, are ya – don’tcha dare fucking hang up on me, ya – Zimms? Zimms! Zimms, you fucking _coward_!”

-/ \\-

They made the play-offs, to the surprise of no one and astonishment of all. The dressing room was quiet enough for a dropped pin to be heard as coach broke the news, quickly overtaken with noise rivalling a rock concert. Or a small plane taking off.

Kent sat on the bench, unmoving and unable to keep the grin off his face. His stomach hurt. He blamed it on the seabass Scrappy had served the night before.

NHL play-offs. It didn’t feel real, didn’t even taste real when he whispered it to himself, the sound drowned out completely by the chaos around him. The draft was supposed to have been like that, so expected it couldn’t be real. A childhood dream, grown from a small TV in an old rink near the hospital his Ma worked at, cultivated with hand-me-down gear that never fit and a new country and finally made a reality. Only a large, silver cup held above his head was missing. He could already feel it in his hands, cold and heavy and rough from the inscriptions.

It was an old dream, but no less clear. Even if, in the dream, his beard was always more impressive than he knew it could ever be. He was taller, too. More buff. And to his side a beautiful girlfriend was always standing, cheering him on in the stands before being lifted onto the ice where she kissed him with cameras going off around them, neither giving a shit. Neither thinking at all.

As time went on, in one daring dream or two that he never allowed to fully play out, the woman would be a man. Later still, he’d be standing next to him, flushed and blue-eyed and smiling wider than Kent had ever actually seen. In a lesser dream, more realistic, he’d be in the stands, having been defeated by the other team a round or two before, cheering him on with love in his eyes that only Kent would notice.

An arm came down around Kent’s shoulders. ”Cheer the fuck up, Parser, we haven’t lost yet!”

”Jeez, Swoops, I’m fucking delighted! Do ya need glasses or something?”

”Fuck you.” Swoops pulled him in for a noogie, but Kent pried himself loose before he got the chance.

”Nothing wrong with glasses, if ya need ’em, ya need ’em!” he chirped as Swoops walked off, head shaking and with a faux-disappointed look on his face.

As his back turned fully, Kent let his face fall, focused his mind back on playoffs. If they failed, he’d most definitely feel the consequences of it, and a trade was the last fucking thing he needed. Not with everything that had to happen for him to play in Vegas in the first place. A year left on his contract. Jack still in Canada.

”I’mma take another round,” he announced to no one in particular, began retying his skates.

”Seriously?” someone asked.

Kent slipped his jersey over his head. ”I have to pull my weight.”

”You know your weight isn’t the entire fucking team, right?” Rezzyy asked. ”You don’t need to prove anything.”

Liar. ”’m not trying to,” Kent said, walked out the room. The hockey stick was a comfortable weight in his hand, the one thing that still tied him to the all the boys he’d ever been.

*

The crowd was rowdy, louder than usual. Perhaps it was his imagination, perhaps the excitement of playoffs making everyone a little crazier than usual. By the time warm-ups ended, Kent’s heart was beating as fast as it would a final game.

At the face-off circle, Sonny shook the Ducks’ captain’s hands, said something Kent was too far away to hear but couldn’t have been good. Never was with Sonny.

The ref skated up, whistle in mouth, held up the puck.

Dropped it.

Carly received straight off Sonny’s stick, wasted no time running forward, evading a Duck and checking another out of the way. Kent followed a little behind, half an eye on a Duck skating a little too parallel.

Ass-trailers, Burke called them. Had to happen at some point.

The puck was passed to Sonny, right as Kent swirled around the Duck, glanced around to find the puck again – not by Sonny, sent off – and shot forward, caught the puck just beneath a Ducks’ nose. Rezzy was several feet away, wouldn’t have made it, but another Duck did, hit Kent’s side before he had time to react. It wasn’t hard, wasn’t meant to be, but Kent’s shoulder hit the glass. Another would swoop in, the Duck himself, and there would be no way out, wasn’t as it was, not without losing the puck.

Like hell.

Another Duck, it turned out, and Kent’s shoulder hit the glass again, harder this time, pressed into it as the Duck stayed. His stick came down on Kent’s, nearly sent the puck off, but Kent kept hold.

”Get the fuck off, willya?” he muttered through gritted teeth.

”Shut your mouth, cocksucker,” the Duck spat back, pressed in even harder. Kent’s helmet was inches from the glass, would need to be replaced after the game, but that was another life.

Pulling his stick back a fraction of a second, Kent let the Duck take hold of the puck, used the opening to jab his elbow into the fucker’s side as hard as he could. There was a loud gasp as the Duck came to a broken halt, supporting himself on the glass as he fought for breath. Kent raised his stick, but a whistle tearing through the air kept the puck in place.

A ref skated up, glared at Kent before putting his hand on the Duck’s back.

”The fuck’d you do.”

Kent turned his head, gave Lutz a quick grin. ”Nothin’ special. He just hit me at a bad angle. His fault, really.”

”Should’ve been more careful,” Lutz grinned back.

”Fuckin’ Ducks. Can’t even check proper.”

”Fuckin’ idiots.”

”Amen to that.”

The second ref skated over, and Kent cut him off. ”He skated into me wrong. ’s he okay?”

”He’ll be fine. So you did nothing wrong?”

Kent shrugged. ”Don’t think so. It all happened so quickly. Bad luck.”

The ref sighed and nodded, skated off. The game set back in motion.

*

They won. First game down, as Burke said, drowned out by the noise. He tried again. Nothing.

”Shut your fucking pie-holes, would you?”

The dressing room quieted down. Slightly.

”We’ve still got a long way to go, and I’m expecting each and every one of you to pull your weight. Any slackers will be tied to the bench ‘til they fucking retire!”

The team roared again, and the attention was gone.

”Who wanna go out?” Sonny yelled over the mayhem.

”Curfew’s at ten, gentlemen!” Burke yelled, words completely and utterly lost in the noise.

In his corner, Kent pulled off his gear with his eyes on the bench. First play-off game. Dream come true. A goal for Jack in the second period. He checked the watch on his phone. Calling would have to wait until the morning. If Jack picked up. Or replied to his text.

He barely noticed Burke walking over, until the man sat down next to him with a groan and an exhale. ”Well played out there, Parson.”

”Thanks,” Kent replied, pulled off his underarmour.

“Good goal, no penalties. Can’t say that about everyone,” Burke continued with a pointed glance at Scrappy braying at something Carly had said. ”You’re a good player. I like not having you stuck in the sin bin.”

”I prefer that, too.”

”You’re no use there.”

”None.”

”So don’t pull a fucking stunt like that again, alright?” And there the point was. Kent tried not to roll his eyes. ”You were lucky the ref was blind as a fucking bat, but that won’t always be the case.”

“I know.”

”Good. Look, I don’t care how dirty you play, but I expect you not to get caught.”

Kent nodded.

“Awesome.” Burke slapped his thighs. ”Now go celebrate with your team. Make some mistakes.”

”I will,” Kent lied, and if the look Burke sent him before leaving was anything to go by, he was well aware of that.

*

They won the second game as well. And the third. And the fourth.

”Fourth fucking best in the fucking west!” Carly roared from atop the bench, dressed only in a jockstrap and, for some reason, his helmet. Kent wasn’t even surprised anymore.

”Who would’ve fucking thought,” Rezzy grinned.

“You’re welcome,” Kent said, low enough for no heads to swirl in his direction, loud enough for all breath to be punched out of his lungs as Rezzy’s hand came down on his back, once, twice on the Duck-shaped bruise on his shoulder. Kent winced.

”Careful, amigo!” Carly yelled. ”Don’t punch out the golden goose’s eggs!”

Beneath the wave of laughter, Kent grimaced again, turned it into a smile and returned to his bench. Folded his jersey and placed it on top of the rest of his gear. Zipped the bag shut.

Scrappy met him by the car fifteen minutes later. ”You can just ask for the key when you leave,” he said as the car turned on beneath them. ”It’s cold waiting.”

”I don’t mind.”

”I was made to believe there’s something wrong with me,” a woman sang on the radio, and Kent tightened his hold on the edge of the car seat. A glance to the left revealed Scrappy looking straight ahead, somehow humming along with the melody.

Still no calls from Jack. The _fucking_ coward.

”What did they mean by golden goose? Back in the dressing room.”

Kent looked over. Blinked at Scrappy’s genuine confusion.

It was just too fucking much.

”I’m serious!” Scrappy said, face rapidly reddening as Kent nearly choked on his own laughter.

”Sorry, it’s just … ” he took a heaving breath, then another. ”I dunno, man. They’re a buncha fucking weirdos.”

Confusion parted for understanding. ”High on the victory. Makes everyone a little weird.”

Kent snickered, turned his eyes back on the city going past. The neon lights.

Two months since Montréal.

*

They walked off the ice of the semifinals with a 5-4 win that left Kent on his back in the tunnel with Scrappy furiously apologising above him and the rest of the room doubled over in laughter at the dumbfounded look on his face. The clip made every highlight reel for the rest of the week. According to Bubbles, people on the internet were making fun of him, too. It was nothing, however, to a hat-trick in the Conference Final that left Kent the target of hats thrown from both teammates and rink staff. Even a guy or two on the streets of Las Vegas.

”How does it feel to be the most talked about rookie in the NHL?” one vulture asked, sticking his microphone so close to Kent’s face he deliberated putting his mouth around it. Just to see what would happen.

”You know, I just get out there and play,” he said instead, smirk dialled up to a max. ”Getting to the next game is what matters, and what comes after isn’t really something I think about out there.”

”Do you think you’re getting the Calder?”

The smirk was traded out for a serious, bordering on patronising expression that Marina had made them all learn on one gruelling PR session back in March. ”That’s not something anyone can say ahead of time, I think. What happens will happen, ya know.”

”How does it feel, at nineteen years of age, to lead the best league in the world in points?”

The smirk returned. ”Feels pretty darn good, I have to admit that. But I can’t do it without the rest of the team having my back.” He laughed, as did the vultures a fraction of a second later.

”So how do you feel about the finals?”

Kent shrugged. Grinned. “I feel like slaughtering a waddle of penguins.”

More laughter, Aces roaring. Chaos, and in chaos, Kent thrived.

”So would you say your first year in the Las Vegas Aces has been good?” another reporter asked, barely audible over the noise. ”Even though everyone thought Zimmerma- ”

”I think that’s enough questions for now,” Marina Teterya interrupted before the man could finish his sentence. ”We’ve got another game in a couple of days, and the boys need their beauty sleep.”

The vultures squabbled but eventually left, one after the other out the narrow doorway from the Schooners’ guest dressing room. A scare tactic, Kent thought to himself. Psychological warfare against the visiting team.

Hadn’t worked.

Didn’t work in Pittsburgh, either.

Still, when he stepped onto the ice for the first game of the fucking Stanley Cup finals (as Marina had expressly forbidden them to call it after a particularly disastrous attempt at putting Bubbles in front of a camera), taking in the mass of people in the stands, Kent knew they’d lose.

They didn’t.

The second one, he thought the same. It didn’t curb the pain of the actual loss.

Third game was won with a single goal in overtime from a luckily placed pass during a check. Kent hit more out of instinct than strategy, but a goal was a goal. A smirk took care of the rest.

Fourth game went down with the more checks than Kent had ever experienced. He left it with a bruised rib, an aching jaw, and an even more aching loss.

By game five, the Pittsburgh Penguins had stopped joking. Set jaws and dirty looks, and Kent almost felt like he was getting scolded by a teacher. The scolding came from Burke after the loss when he’d bombed the one face-off he’d been put in by a Penguin just mentioning Jack’s name.

”If you fucking flop this,” Burke all but spat in the second break of the sixth game, ”I promise you, I will make your next season so miserable you will _cry_ because I didn’t trade you this summer! Do I make myself clear?”

“Does he ever fucking shut up?” Kent hissed.

Rezzy snorted. “Burke? Nah, that fucker’s not shutting up ‘til he kicks the fucking bucket.”

”As if he wouldn’t preach at his own fucking funeral,” Kent muttered back.

To his left, Bubbles let out a giggle, shrank down in his seat as Burke’s glare hit him.

”Busted,” Rezzy hummed.

“You know, not taking this seriously was how we lost so much last season,” Burke said.

But that was last year. This year, they won by the skin of their teeth, a defenceman out with a concussion and a goal from Kent he still couldn’t believe years later. Made it to game seven, in Pittsburgh, to the quiet night air and unmistakable smell of trash that never failed to remind Kent of fuckwhere, Canada. In his ear, the lady continued her automatic speech, and a beep pierced the otherwise quiet night air.

”I hope you’ll watch,” he whispered. ”It’s the final.”

Far away, a police siren started up. Faded again.

”I wish you were here. I really fucking wish you were here.” He closed his eyes. ”I - ”

The message ended. Kent let his arm fall down to his side. Turned the phone off.

Half an hour later, for the briefest of moments, as he skated onto the ice, he thought he saw a dark head with sad-looking eyes in the stands. He almost snapped his neck turning to look, but there was nothing. Just black and gold, yellow and black, screaming and cheering and cursing. Waiting.

”This is on you, kid,” Sonny whispered into his ear, slapped his shoulder and skated off, left Kent standing alone on the ice until he couldn’t be still any longer.

The puck dropped.

He ran.

*

“Motherfucking _cocksucker_!” Carly yelled, but it was no use. The ref’s face hardened, and he pushed him back, towards the sin bin. “I didn’t do _shit_ , watch the fucking tape!”

The ref said something, but it was drowned in the Penguin shooting past Kent, a small wave of ice on his shins. A grin and a promise.

When the puck finally dropped, Carly was scowling in the bin, nearly given an even longer penalty for disrespect. As if they could afford more than two minutes’ powerplay, Kent thought and received the puck, set off towards the Pens’ goal. Swift offences, Burke had told them, swift offences and swifter defences if the Pens got the puck. No goals lost.

Passing to Rezzy, Kent swirled around a Penguin, took in the others’ positions as he did. The D-men were too close to the goal for a proper attack, forwards too fast, Aces too far away. Rezzy must have thought the same, because he stepped forward, evaded a Penguin, lifted his stick to shoot.

The goalie was fast, a vet still with the remnants of youth left in his joints, caught the puck on his glove and sent it back onto the ice. Kent took a step backwards, just as Rezzy took one forwards, knocked shoulders with a Penguin and brought his stick down again, but it was too late. The Penguin hit as well, sent the puck towards a teammate who passed it off just short of Sonny’s stick.

And Kent turned, one eye on the puck, the other on Pops in the net. Scrappy stepping in front of him, Rezzy running. Burke’s stone-face on the bench.

The Penguin passed to a teammate, moved to a firmer position near the goal, and Kent stepped in behind him, caught Scrappy’s eye for a second long enough, changed his hold on his stick. As soon as the puck was shot off again, he ran, felt the Penguin flinch as he passed him, hit the puck straight on.

It didn’t go far. The Penguin got him from behind, sent him stumbling, caught the puck before Scrappy could, passed to a teammate who raised his stick. In front of the goal – too far, Sonny, too – Scrappy scrambled to get back in place, hit the guy, do something, but the puck had already left the fucker’s stick, hit Pops’ shin pad.

For the briefest of moments, Kent exhaled. Then, the Penguin checked Scrappy to the side, sent the puck in just above Pops’ skate. The horn blared, and Kent bit down on his mouth guard until he could feel it in his skull. Skating away from the goal, teammates hitting his back and roaring with him, a soft-faced Penguin raised his fist in the air. Grinned at the crowd chanting his name.

“I’m sorry about Zimmermann,” the same guy had told Kent back in winter, all but jogging up to him in front of the rink. He’d been flushed from the cold, his suit slightly rumpled, but the smile on his face had been genuine and the hand on Kent’s shoulder that had lingered for a second too long had been warm.

Fucking Canadians, Kent had thought as he tried not to burst into tears in the middle of the street.

Fucking Canadians, he thought as the second period of the last game of the Stanley Cup championship in his first ever NHL season came to an end.

The fucker was capable of emotions other than pity he discovered in the third period at the Aces’ second goal, a triple pass, Kent’s eyes on the spot just above the goalie’s shoulder. A flick of his wrist, and the puck went in just below his arm, inches from his shin pad.

2-2.

As he skated back towards centre ice, one fist to the air, Sonny’s arms came around him, and he nearly stumbled, a spike of adrenaline tearing above the rest already tearing him to shreds. Sonny didn’t hug.

”Nice goal, kid.” Too close to his ear, but Kent didn’t flinch. ”You’re on the bench now. As soon as you see an opening.”

Kent tried to pull away, but Sonny’s grip was vice-like. ”No complaining, kid. Coach’s orders.” With a slap to Kent’s back, two, he let go and skated towards centre ice.

The puck dropped seconds after Kent got into position, just in time to pass to Carly who raised a quick eyebrow at him and skated towards the side. Running after him was instinct, second-thought, but Kent grit his teeth, set off towards the bench and jumped in just as Lutz jumped out.

As soon as his feet hit the floor, he spat out his mouth guard. ”What the fuck?”

”Good goal, Parson,” Burke replied, voice even and eyes on the game.

”But?”

”But nothing. We’re in the lead, we stay defensive.”

He should’ve spat it in Burke’s face. “That’s the worst fucking plan I’ve ever heard.”

”Good thing you’re just a rookie, then. And not part of making our strategies.”

”I’ve scored every single one of our goals, and you’re pulling me? The fuck kinda strategy is that?”

For a fraction of a second, Burke glanced his way. ”Who said anything about you being pulled? Right now, you’re on the bench. You’re young, and scared you might have pulled something. You don’t want an injury this early in your career.”

”I haven’t - ”

”And we’ve got an entire team of guys, older and more experienced than you, out there, hungry for a title and their names on a Cup. You understand that, right?”

Kent’s fist was all but shaking his side. An entire year of working his fucking ass off, and he got _pulled_. ”Fuck you.”

Something that might have been a smile flickered across Burke’s face. ”Or maybe, after staying here a little, you find out that you haven’t actually pulled anything.”

”What - ”

”The Pens’ll be getting desperate soon, I think. They might pull their goalie. Too fucking bad if someone fast and rested came onto the ice and got us another goal, eh?”

”I’d certainly hate that,” Swoops added from the side.

”Wasn’t fucking talking to you, Troy.”

”Sorry, Coach.”

He turned to Kent again. “I don’t think they’d like that very much, the Pens. ‘specially coming from a rookie who wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place.”

Kent nodded, slowly uncurled his fists, ignored the burning in the pit of his stomach. The sting in the back of his throat.

”So are you gonna sit your ass down, or do I need to get a medic to walk you out of here?”

Kent sat.

At 12:54, Carly landed himself in the penalty box for high-sticking.

At 9:32, the entire rink erupted as Pops threw himself down on the puck.

At 4:21, Kent locked eyes with the soft-faced Pen as he skated past. Neither expression changed.

At 2:57, as predicted, the Pens pulled their goalie. Kent turned to Burke, who gave him a nod back.

At 2.49, Kent Parson rejoined the Stanley Cup final.

Hitting the ice running, he came to a brief halt in front of a Pen, swirled right, locked eyes with Scrappy. Three seconds later, he was in the Aces’ defensive zone, keeping his eyes firmly on the puck and off the fight where he’d just been.

A whistle blew, the two were pulled apart, and Scrappy sent Kent a wide grin and something that have been a thumbs up with the hand not clutching his chin. There was blood on his gloves, on the Pens’, too, and Kent gave him a nod back.

At 1.00, the puck hit the ice again, was promptly shot off by Pops yelling something in Russian at a Penguin, or an Ace, or a ref. Kent didn’t care, had already run off ahead, one eye on Rezzy scooping up the puck, the other on an incoming Penguin. At centre ice, he threw himself to the side to avoid a collision, nearly fell over his own feet catching the puck shooting past. Towards Sonny, but Sonny was too fucking slow. Sonny’d have to deal.

Before he could fully regain balance, Kent shot off again, stumbled for a couple of feet before running like usual, breath in his throat, burn in his thighs, victory on the tip of his tongue. Closer and closer and closer to the goal where the D-men were rushing, too fucking large, too fucking _slow_.

No time for the wicked, and Kent was wicked beyond words.

Evading one Penguin, ducking under the stick of another, Kent continued forward, swept past black and gold, black and yellow, hit the puck straight on. Watched it fly.

Above them, the horn blared, but Kent barely heard it. There was still half a minute left, half a minute they had to clear.

At centre ice, he bent down behind Rezzy, watched the puck be sent to the side, swept off, swept away, returned to Aces’ hands with a hip-check and a mid-pass grab. A pass of their own. Another. A third. The goal was still open, guarded only by a couple of exhausted D-men, but they were all exhausted, exhausted and elated and enraged. The forwards were attacking from every angle possible, not hard enough to warrant a penalty, nothing to suggest they’d given up. No one gave up in a Stanley Cup final. No one.

Skating back, Kent made his way towards the offensive zone, kept one eye on the puck and one on the D-men. There was no need for another goal and no need for him in defence. No place to relax, either, but Kent was too far gone to relax. Too high.

The shoulder hit before the black blur, sent Kent stumbling, falling as a push to his back followed. Accidental, with the refs and linemen occupied by the fight for the puck in the defensive zone, no less painful. Instinctively, Kent lifted his arms to protect his face. His throat.

“How do you like that, huh? You dirty little - “

The last words were lost in the horn above them, the roar of the crowd, the ripples of loss and victory colliding and mixing and tearing each other up in a sea of black. Distantly, Kent noticed a bench exploding, black waves rolling onto the ice, masses of bodies writhing amongst one another, hitting like a tsunami, pushing back the Penguin and pulling him up off the ice, almost off his feet and into the air, and all he could do was furiously blink the tears away, the fear, curse the burn in the back of his throat, slap the back of a jersey and another. There were words, but Kent heard none of them. Only three made their way through, from the ref, or an Ace, or Kent’s own head, there was no way of telling.

Stanley Cup champion.

Stanley Cup champion, Stanley Cup champion, Stanley Cup _fucking_ champion.

It was only when his cheeks started hurting, cracking in the cold air, that Kent realised he was smiling.

Stanley Cup champion.

The words rang through his head, left room for nothing else as the Aces began to pull away, allowed his lungs to expand. There was a victory lap, hand-shaking, Pens with tears in their eyes and grim expressions, wives and girlfriends and parents and children streaming onto the ice, and Kent was alone, alone until Swoops skated up and pulled him towards an older man who had to be his father.

There was the Cup, handed to him as fifth, far heavier than he’d thought and nearly dropped onto the ice, but somehow not. Somehow not.

And there was laughter, piercing it all, enveloping, moving over the Jack-sized hole in his chest constricting until he couldn’t fucking breathe.

He handed the Cup on, pressed a hand to his mouth.

There were more laps. Champagne. Burke smiling, possibly a hallucination as the hand of time left midnight firmly behind and alcohol burned beneath Kent’s skin, kept him cold, kept him frozen, and reality was abandoned along with gear and ice and burning bones.

”Congratulations, Kenny.”

Kent laughed. They weren’t in Las Vegas, he knew, but perhaps it had crept under his skin, burrowed itself like a parasite and laid its eggs. Because in Las Vegas dreams came true, as long as you didn’t look beyond the surface. And so he didn’t, not until the Aces around him went quiet.

”Heya,” Bad Bob Zimmermann smiled.

Kent blinked. Bad Bob Zimmermann was still there. Still smiling. ”Hi.”

”One hell of a game, eh?”

Kent nodded. Next to him, someone muttered something that might have been ‘holy shit’.

”It’s mayhem out there,” Jack’s father continued. ”I do miss it sometimes.”

_It should’ve been Jack_. ”It’s amazing.”

”It is,” Bob agreed with a smile of long ago. ”And good thing you’re here, kid. A hat-trick in the Stanley Cup finals.” He whistled. ”I don’t even think I’ve done that.”

”I’m not trynna be you.”

”Parser - ”

Kent blinked. Right. Teammates. There were teammates.

Bad Bob Zimmermann smiled, the polite smile Kent had seen a million times before, never in his home. ”Can you boys excuse us for a minute?”

His hand was warm on Kent’s bicep, warm enough for Kent’s heart to force itself up his throat, taste like bile, and they were out the door and alone in a small hallway before Kent could regain any remnant of control over himself. When he finally did, he tore himself free from the hold, stumbled a little at the sudden shift in balance.

”I’m not trynna be you,” he repeated.

”I know,” Bad Bob said.

”I’m not trynna one-up you. Or anyone. I’m just trynna fucking play.”

”I know, I’m - ” Bob cut himself off. Licked his lips. ”I’m not doing this very well, am I? Congratulations, Kenny. You did well.”

”Don’t call me that.”

”I’m sorry. Kent. Alicia sends her congratulations, too. As does Jack,” he added softly.

Kent wanted to scream. Punch Bob in the face. Tear him to fucking _shreds_. ”He doing alright?”

Bad Bob nodded. ”He’s better. He’s become so much better.”

”Since?”

The legend of Kent’s childhood looked away. The father of the boy he’d fucked. ”He’s doing better. That’s the most important thing.”

Kent didn’t laugh. If he did, he’d cry. And like hell was he giving Bob the satisfaction. ”I have to get back to my team.”

For a moment, it almost looked like Bob was going to say something. ”Of course. Enjoy it, Kent. There’s nothing like it.”

“I will.”

There was music in the air, yelling and hollering, yelps and roars, the stench of sweat and alcohol and perfume. Women in jeans with platinum blonde hair, children asleep on their shoulders. Shirtless men and a silver Cup raised above them all, overflowing with bubbles and names they would all soon join.

For a long moment – secondsminutes _hours_ \- Kent considered turning on his phone, see if Jack had written. Called. Proven Bob wrong.

But he hadn’t. Because if there was one thing Jack couldn’t fucking stand, couldn’t fucking deal with, it was losing. And this time, like the year before, Kent had won, and Jack had lost. Kent was gold, and he had silver, and he was a treasure trove all on his own.

And he missed Jack like a fucking limb. Beneath the victory, the anger, the elation, the overwhelming relief and exhaustion, the hole in his heart ached, refused to be filled no matter how much champagne Kent poured into it. How many victories. Broken records. It was still there, blue eyes and warm hands and needy little noises in his ear. Small smiles and nervous words.

Kent swallowed down another bottle of champagne, fell asleep on Scrappy’s couch with Pops snoring somewhere on the floor.

Before he could fully notice, a week had passed with celebrations and award ceremonies that left Kent with a Calder in his hands and an Art Ross he hardly dared to look at. An apartment on the Strip with two bedrooms and floor-to-ceiling windows and Scrappy laughing at the furniture he still helped him assemble and place. Kent paid for the takeout, they hugged like bros at 9 PM.

And then he was alone, walked out into the living room, plopped down in an armchair.

He needed to buy groceries. Figure out how the drier worked. Get used to the silence.

When he woke up, Britney bored into his brain, tore it to pieces and him limb from limb, lobotomised and crushed him.

”’lo?”

”Good morning, Parson,” Harrison greeted, far too chipper for – Kent checked – 6:47 AM.

”It’s the fucking off-season, man. I just moved.”

”I know, and I’m sorry, but this is somewhat important, so I hope I can get you to listen for a few minutes,” the GM continued, sentences rolling out like his body was literally exploding with words.

Kent sighed. ”I’m listening.”

”We need a C.”

The last echoes of sleep ripped apart, blew off in the desert wind, left Kent a gaping fish on land. ”Sorry?”

”The Aces need a C, and we’re offering you the spot.”

Kent opened his mouth, closed it again. Looked out the window. No cartoon bunnies were jumping around. No Jack was lying on the other side of his too-big bed.

”You don’t have to decide right now, I’m just giving you a heads up before we ask you officially.”

”Thanks?”

”You’re welcome. You’ll receive an email later today, asking you for a meeting. I do hope you’ll have an answer for us by then.” Kent could hear his smile through the phone, always misplaced.

”What if I say no?”

”Then we’ll give you the A, if you accept that, along with Carlsberg and Manson. But let’s be real here. You’re not going to say no.”

”The fuck does that mean?”

”Time will tell,” Harrison smiled. ”Enjoy the off-season. And for the sake of our PR team, don’t do anything stupid.”

With that, he hung up.

Kent stared at the phone before placing it back down on the bedside table. Promptly grabbed it again, turned it off, rolled out of bed. Stood alone in a new bedroom that smelled of disinfectant mixed with old laundry. After a moment of deliberation, he changed into running gear, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket in the kitchen Scrappy had brought the night before. Nine flights of stairs later, he was on the ground, nodding to the doorman as he left.

Even in the morning, Las Vegas didn’t sleep, but the air was breathable. Wouldn’t be for long.

Putting in his ear buds, Kent let Britney’s voice flow over him once more. He breathed, once, twice, took a step, another, ran.

One more year and he'd be gone. He could play captain until then if he had to.


	5. 2010/11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kent makes mistakes, does his best, and is real fucking tired of running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and I did NOT get along, hence the delay in posting.
> 
> As warnings, we have a few more sex scenes - some with men that are not Jack - a sports injury, the use of cocaine as both recreation and a way for an older player to stay in a sport that is both thankless and ruthless, degrading comments about and demeaning actions towards women, some more consensual than others, and a homophobia-related threat of physical violence or two.
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by 'Vegas Lights' by Panic! at the Disco and Lana del Rey's 'Ultraviolence' album - 'Old Money' in particular.

” … and that was one hell of a match, eh, Leonard?”

”You’re quite right, Barry, that truly was glorious. I don’t know about you, but I was on the edge of my seat through every single game. I don’t think I relaxed at all until Parson made that final goal in game 7!”

”Yes, that was unexpected, wasn’t it?”

”Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I don’t think it’s any secret that he’s the main reason the Aces even made it to the play-offs, never mind the finals.”

”He’s a good player, that’s for sure. There were many who doubted him last year, before the draft, among them even you. Has this season changed your view?”

“That’s an understatement! But you must remember, we only saw him playing with Jack Zimmermann until last year, never on his own, so I don’t think we can blame anyone for not seeing what kind of player he actually is until he came out of that shadow.”

”And when exactly did you realise what kind of player he was?”

”From the first game, definitely. I was wary, you know, putting in a completely green player in the first official game of the season without training him a little with pre-season games. We all knew he was going to come in fast, but just throwing him in when it began to actually count seemed pretty desperate – at the time, mind you, the Aces obviously knew more than we did! And they played it well, the element of surprise.”

”You say ’element of surprise’, did that carry all the way to the Stanley Cup finals?”

”Of course not. In my view, it simply held Parson up while he learned how to balance himself in a new league and on a new team. Then the talent took over.”

Barry cleared his throat, face red in a way that couldn’t be healthy. ”Now, do you think, if Jack Zimmermann hadn’t dropped out of the draft, that he would’ve been for the Aces what Parson is now?”

”A golden rookie, you mean.” The man named Leonard made a face that perhaps to the untrained eye was pity. Or maybe he was having a slight seizure. ”I doubt it. Zimmermann obviously had some issues, and they would’ve gotten him down eventually. The NHL’s tough, there’s no place for any cracks in the facade, the whole house’ll come down before you know it. That aside, his style of playing as we saw it in the Q, it just wouldn’t have worked with the way the Aces play. He’s a safe player, doesn’t take too many chances. Parson on the other hand is reckless, and it pays off. He’s fast enough to pull off plays many bigger guys wouldn’t be able to get away with, and he doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word fear. Kid’s got nothing to lose, he plays like it, and that he got onto a team like the Aces, a team that’s new and desperate to make a name for itself, that was a miracle for everyone involved.”

”And Zimmermann wouldn’t have been able to adapt, you don’t think?”

“I don’t, no. He got most of his playing style from his father, who, as you know, only ever played on old, well-established teams. There’s no need for the screw-it-all kind of way Parson plays, and so he never learned that, never learned the mindset. If you don’t mind me being a little crude, I think his background would’ve ruined his chances of success on a team like the Aces. They might have wanted the security and history he brought with him, but he wouldn’t have given them success, not like Parson’s done. To be completely frank, he would’ve perished on a team like the Aces. And Parson would’ve perished on a team that wasn’t the Aces. I have little doubt that if he’d gone first and Parson second, we would’ve seen them both break and fade within a season or two.”

“We got Parson, at least.”

“That we did.”

“Parson, who has now been named captain of the Las Vegas Aces, youngest American-born captain in NHL history at nineteen years and 344 days of age. What are your thoughts on that decision?”

“I think it’s another gamble - but it’s Vegas, gambling is what they do there! - and Parson’s going to show us another very interesting side of himself this next season. I, for one, can’t wait to see it.”

“Me, too, Leonard. Now, the Aces have never had a C before, in the two years they’ve been in the league, and a lot of people thought they were never going to keep it that way. Do you think it’s changed the atmosphere in the dressing room, suddenly putting someone in charge – and a rookie, no less?”

“I think the dynamic’s going to change for sure, but how much really depends on how Parson chooses to tackle the responsibility, if he’s going to try and take control or just keep playing. Both can work if he does it right, but he’s very young. I wish him the best of luck.”

*

June 15th 9.03 PM. From ‘Ma’.

_congrats on the cup and the c_

_I’m proud of you._

June 16th 11.57 PM. To ‘Ma’

_~~than~~ _

_~~why are~~ _

June 19th 06.47 AM. To ‘Ma’

_thanks_

-/ \\-

The parking lot was almost empty but Kent drove in slowly anyway. According to the website, the training sessions would be out soon, and running over a little kid too eager to get home to look both ways was the last thing he needed.

Not that anyone wouldn’t be eager to leave, Kent thought with a quick glance at the building as he pulled into an empty lot. Large and grey and exactly like the pictures on the website and Google Earth had promised. Even the beat-out sign over the main entrance was the same, bird shit and all.

And still Jack was there. For some God-awful reason Kent couldn’t understand if he tried.

The slam of the car door echoed through the empty space as Kent more kicked than pushed it shut. A seagull squawked, flew off a nearby wall before settling back down, picked at one of its feathers. It look ridiculous there, completely and utterly out of place.

The inside of the building was as worn as the outside, but the young woman at the front desk was not. Pushing his cap further down, Kent pulled on a practised smirk. ”Hey there. The Montréal Nordiques train here, right?”

The girl lifted her eyes from the magazine in her hands, gave him a quick one-over, popped her gum. ”What’s it to you?”

Not a hockey fan, then.

”I used to play with their coach.”

She raised an eyebrow. ”Aren’t you a little too young for that?”

”The younger one. Ja– Zimmermann.”

”Right … ” Another pop. ”They train here, yeah. Almost done, I think. Follow me.”

No questions, no suspicions. It had been a while since Kent had been a bored teenager, the kind that stuck gum in girls’ hair and skipped class to read comics and pretend to smoke cigarettes in the bike sheds, back when the world was only as big as one’s neighbourhood and nothing ever happened. Back when Kent had friends outside of hockey.

Still, he had no regrets. The unmistakable sounds of an ice rink flared up by every step they took, shouts and sticks hitting and laughter. Had been a while since Kent played peewee, too. He’d been on the curb of something, back then, of a lot of things; puberty and the kick in the face that had been, a solid dream of a professional career. A future. By the time he entered juniors, it had all become real, a little too fucking real, and there was no going back. What that might say about the NHL, Kent didn’t really want to think about, and didn’t get to as the last wall separating him from the chaos of a peewee practice went away.

There were about a dozen kids on the ice, short and energetic, some wearing neon pullovers he could almost feel against the bare skin of his arms, all in helmets that were a little too big and jerseys that didn’t quite fit. And among them, standing just to the side and following the scrimmage with attentive eyes, was Jack. Tall and pale, hair slightly longer from the last time they’d seen each other. February. Vancouver. Four fucking months.

Kent would’ve known him blind.

On the ice, one of the kids skated over, and Jack bent down, listened attentively before replying. The kid frowned but nodded before skating off again to rejoin the others. With a hint of a smile visible even from where Kent was standing, Jack bent down a little further, picked up a stray puck.

Next to him, front desk girl’s breath hitched, and Kent’s hands curled to fists at his side.

”Nice view, eh?” she whispered.

”They’re good,” Kent said, breathed through his nose. “The kids.”

”Sure.”

Another gum pop, but before Kent could snap at her, to spit it out, to be a little more respectful, to fucking _leave_ , Jack’s head turned towards them.

He couldn’t have heard them, not as far away as he was. Then again, Kent shouldn’t have been able to see just how blue his eyes were. Or how they widened as they met his.

Time didn’t stand still, or anything as stupid as that. The noise of the rink didn’t disappear. The girl next to him was definitely still there, as was the sting of her perfume in his nose. But Kent couldn’t move as Jack slowly, too fucking slowly, made his way across the ice. That part still fit.

He’d gained weight. Not a lot, but he was almost beginning to look like he did the year before.

”Kenny.”

Little more than a whisper, travelled down Kent’s spine and to the tips of his fingers until his entire body filled with the breath of it.

”Heya, Zimms. Long time no see.”

Jack’s eyes flickered to the girl, back at Kent. ”What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you. ‘s been a while.”

Four months, February, Vancouver.

”Can you leave us, please?”

Right. The girl. Who was looking at them with a frown and a half-open mouth, like a question was forming somewhere inside her but refused to fully manifest itself.

”Of course.”

And thank the fucking Lord for Canadian politeness. With a last glance at the two of them and another at Jack’s ass for reasons Kent couldn’t blame her for, she was gone, swinging her hips as she walked in a way that looked neither comfortable nor practical.

”How did you know I was here?”

Hard. Nearly enough to take Kent aback. ”Your Dad told me you were coaching peewee. I just looked up the rink.”

”Oh. When did you - “

”I missed you. So fucking much.”

Jack bit his lip, worried it, left it red and moist. Like Kent had done hundreds of times.

“You never called me back. Or texted.”

” … I don’t think this is the right place.”

From where they’d huddled around the goal, the kids were looking at them, tugged at one another’s sleeves and whispered. A man, the other coach probably, yelled something, and the kids’ heads snapped back to him.

”Then let’s go somewhere else. I’ve got a hotel room. It’s not far away.”

”I’ve got practice here.”

”Your own?”

Jack shook his head. ”The kids. I can’t leave them.”

”Just this once?”

Jack bit his lip again. Shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Please, Zimms? I’ve come all this way.”

“ … just this once. But I have to tell coach Duremond first.”

Before Kent could say anything, do anything, he was gone again, skated towards the cluster of miniature players with a slight stumble in his step that hadn’t been there the year before. The ass was the same, though, glorious and finally within Kent’s reach again. Where it belonged.

”Excusez-moi?”

Swiftly banishing any and all inappropriate thoughts from his mind, Kent looked down into large blue eyes over red-tinted cheeks and a blond ponytail. ”Ouais?”

”Tu es Kent Parson.”

Only kids could do statements like that, no hint of doubt anywhere to be found.

”C’est vrai. Et comment tu t’appelles?”

The kid smiled back, perhaps happy he was who he was, perhaps amused at his accent. ”Je m’appelle Marie.”

Kent glipped as the kid – Marie, _she_ – continued in rapid-fire French. He cleared his throat. ”Pardon, t’es trop vite pour moi.”

At that, she laughed outright, and he grinned, too. It had been years since an eleven-or-so year old girl had last laughed at him. Almost ten, to be exact. Not as horrible as he remembered it being.

”Mais tu es Kent Parson! Tu as jouée ici, à Rimouski, avec coach Zimmermann!”

The smile flickered, but Kent kept it up. ”Ouais, c’est vrai. Mais Jack parle anglais.”

”I do,” Jack said, sent another bout of butterflies into intricate aerogymnastics in Kent’s stomach. Appearing out of fucking nowhere. That was new. “Marie, reviens à les autres, s’il vous plaît.”

The girl opened her mouth, but a thin smile from Jack closed it again, and she set off, joined the still-whispering crowd at the net.

“Do you have a car?”

Kent nodded, followed Jack outside. Opened the door to the passenger seat for him. Shut his own, shut out the whole fucking world. “Girls?”

Jack blinked. Shrugged. “ It was Papa’s idea. He figured they’d be less … brash. Than boys. And they are. They’re really nice. And talented, some of them. Really talented.”

“Was he the one who talked you into doing a summer camp, too?”

”Helping out.” Jack corrected. ”I don’t think anyone will let me coach for real.”

“They’d let you play for real.”

“Kenny … “ Jack sighed.

”You’re fucking amazing, Zimms. You can’t let that go to waste.”

”… I can’t, Kenny.”

”Why the fuck not?”

”Not right now! I just … ” Jack dragged a hand across his face. ”I need this right now. And I need to get back, the girls will wonder where I - “

“What? Come on, Zimms, at least … come back to the hotel with me. Just for a couple of hours. I’ve missed you.” Kent swallowed. “I miss you.”

For a long second, the ‘no’ lay on Jack’s tongue, ready to fall. Kent’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“ … a couple of hours. Nothing more.”

Kent grinned. “I’ll have ya home before dinner.”

“And - “ Kent’s hand with the keys stilled. “Can we not talk about hockey? Please?”

He smiled, turned the ignition. “Sure.”

They drove in silence, walked inside a silence, Jack a warm, constant presence behind Kent. A year, and he could still feel him behind him. Didn’t have to look.

Touching was an instinct, wordless and unexplainable, hands on skin and clothes on the floor, Jack flushed and warm beneath his touch, tasting more like home than Kent had felt in a year, and he was ready to drown in it.

_I missed you, I missed you, I missed you so_ fucking _much._

Jack sighed, a small sound that set Kent’s entire body on fire, and he pushed down further, growled as Jack’s thighs pressed against his waist, as bruises were pressed into his back.

_I love you_.

The fingers on Kent’s back dug in deeper as Jack tensed up, spilled onto Kent’s hand and stomach with a broken sound that pushed Kent over the edge with him. They rode the waves together, rocked into each other until it hurt and a hand on Kent’s chest pushed him off. Another moved to his hair, pulled at the ruined cowlick there as Kent’s head moved to lie on his chest. With every breath, his heartbeat calmed, and Kent with it.

”I like yours short.”

”I like it, too.” Jack sighed, loud in the sudden quiet of the hotel room, warm against Kent’s cheek.

”I do miss you, y’know.”

”I know.”

“They gave me the C.”

“… I know.”

“My contract’s still up next summer.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think they’ll trade me. They might, but I don’t think they will. We can still do as we talked about, talk to other teams. Find somewhere we can play together again.”

“What are you going to do on your day?”

Kent frowned. “What?”

“Your Cup day,” Jack continued, eyes on the ceiling. Crackless. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know. Take a picture. Without alcohol, or PR’ll skin me alive. I wouldn’t mind going back to Canada, Vegas is so fucking hot it’s ridiculous.”

“You can put a baby in it.”

”Don’t have one of those, Zimms. What I’m trynna say is, stick out some feelers, I’ll do the same, we’ll be on the ice together next year. Like we talked about, get a place – fuck, we’ll be rookies together, it’d be normal - “

”You can borrow a baby.”

”Fuck, I can’t just – seriously, Zimms, can you shut up about babies for one second, I’m trynna be serious here! I know they gave me the C - “

”You don’t say.”

“ - but it was for the fuckin – Zimms, c’mon, don’t be like that, it was for the fucking record, it doesn’t mean shit. We’ll find somewhere good, settle in, you just have to prove yourself this season, get some scouts out looking atcha. Your Dad can probably - “

“I can’t.”

Kent resisted the urge to scream. ”Can’t what? Talk? Think about you fucking future for once?”

”I can’t fucking – it’s complicated. Kenny, I can’t - ”

”Can’t what?”

”Anything!” Jack yelled. Had Kent been a lesser man, someone not in a fucking hockey dressing room every day since he was six, he would’ve flinched. “I can’t fucking do anything, Kenny, if you haven’t fucking noticed, I’m not – I can’t - ”

”End a fucking sentence? Yeah, I noticed.”

”Fuck you, Parse! Everything’s not – you don’t understand, I … ”

”Then explain it to me.”

”I can’t.” Gritted teeth and fists. Blue eyes not meeting his.

”Why the fuck not? I’m your best friend, why can’t you just - ”

”I should go.”

”Oh, don’t fucking be like that! You can’t keep opting out whenever things don’t go your way! We have to talk about this at some point, Zimms, we need a fucking plan if we want this to succeed!”

”And what if I don’t want that?”

Kent’s words died in his throat, were replaced by something bitter, something _orange_. “Then tell me what the fuck ya want for once! Talk to me, fucking – text me, call me, send fucking smoke signals! Let me know you’re not lying dead in a fucking bathroom somewhere! Again - ”

The colour drained from Jack’s face, disappeared along with the heat against Kent’s side as he rose, reached out for his clothes.

“Fuck, Zimms, don’t fucking – don’t be such a fucking coward, we need to - “

“We don’t need to do _shit_!” Jack yelled, in Kent’s face, tall and broad and pale.

He wasn’t fucking scared of him. “Flush out your fucking future if ya want, Zimms. Then come see if I care.”

Jack grit his teeth, fisted his hand in his flannel before pulling it on. Slammed the door behind him and left Kent standing naked and alone in a hotel room that still smelled curtly and unmistakably like sex.

He’d be back, he always was. And they’d find a plan. There was time.

-/ \\-

The apartment smelled weird. Not like anything had died in there, or the previous owner had had a problem with personal hygiene, just … weird. Like hotel rooms did, the not-disgusting ones he’d moved on to on the Aces. Faint bleach, lingering food odour from the times he forgot to switch on the ventilation, disgusting workout clothes that no one told him to pick up.

Perhaps he should get himself a pet. Something that would make noise he didn’t procure himself.

That was the other thing in the apartment. He’d wanted a place with thick walls, didn’t want to have to listen to his neighbours going at each other at three in the morning, but the silence was getting to him, no matter how much he hated to admit it. Some days – not many, he wasn’t that fucking pathetic – he’d asked someone for direction during his morning runs, just to talk to someone.

Jack hadn’t called. Or texted.

At least the rink was open during the summer. And Sonny’s Fourth of July party, but Kent wasn’t counting that. Drunk hockey players didn’t count for shit.

Training camps began two weeks later, brought with them an end to the silence, something to do during the day that he didn’t have to figure out himself.

From the front desk, a blonde woman with a scarf around her neck smiled, and Kent smiled back. He should probably learn her name one day.

”Parser!”

Kent turned, only just missed an arm reaching over his shoulder. ”Heya, Bubbles. Good summer?”

”What, no love for me?”

”Sorry,” Kent drawled, continued towards the workout room. ”I’m the captain now. Can’t go having favourites.”

Bubbles perked out. ”You saying I’m your favourite? Hey boys, I’m Parser’s favourite!”

With the exception of Rezzy, who looked about ready to die in the medieval torture machine he was somehow strapped into, and Pops laughing from his spot next to said medieval torture device, the Aces glanced up. Some grinned, some didn’t. Kent didn’t look at those, just rolled his eyes, dumped his bag by the weights. ”I said I don’t have favourites, Crawford.”

”Can’t as captain,” Sonny agreed.

”That’s what I said!”

”Still the favourite,” Bubbles whispered as Kent laid down on the bench a few feet from Sonny who put down his own weights.

”Want me to spot you?”

Kent looked over. ”Thanks.”

Sonny nodded, thought for a second before lifting down a weight.

”Fuck you, I can do more than that!”

Sonny shrugged, a faux-innocent look on his face. ”How could I know? You’re so tiny, Parser, I could lift you with one hand.”

”I’d like to see you try.”

”Right now? Alright - ”

”Fuck off, just pass me something heavier, wouldja?”

Sonny grinned, passed the weight down, allowed Kent to lift once, twice, before speaking up again, almost too low to hear. ”Congrats on the C.”

Biting back a groan, Kent lifted again. “Thanks.”

”Youngest American-born captain in the NHL.”

”Yup.”

”First C of the Las Vegas Aces.”

”Did you like it better not having one?”

Sonny shrugged. ”It was nice. Democratic and shit.”

”I don’t wanna be a dictator.”

”That’s not the spirit, kid.”

Kent frowned.

”’Don’t wanna’ is for losers. Makes you sound weak. ’Not gonna’ is a lot better.”

Kent hummed, lifted the weight again. Kept his face neutral. ”You just here to teach me rhetoric?”

”Fancy words, Shakespeare. Nah, just wanna give you a piece of advice.” He leaned forward, face inches from Kent’s. ”No one’ll blame you for calling it quits, and if I were you, I’d do it now.”

Fifteen years, and Kent didn’t flinch. Wasn’t even sure he could anymore. ”The fuck d’ya mean by that?”

Sonny smiled, not cruel, not even close. Pitying. Patient. ”You’re real fucking good on the ice, but you’re a kid, too. You’re new in the league, you’ve never been captain on your own before. You’re gonna fuck this up, and when you do, the rest of us’ll be picking up the pieces.”

”Is that a threat?”

”’course not. Just some advice from an old-timer.”

With one last smile, Sonny lifted the weight from Kent, placed it back on the shelf and made a beeline for the ellipticals where Rezzy was firmly not looking their way. Left Kent feeling younger than he had in years, biting it down along with the burn in the back of his throat.

One more year, and then he was out of there. Less, if he was traded. He could do one year.

*

”Alright, fuckers,” Burke announced in the dressing room, overpowered the buzz of a new season. ”We’ve beaten ’em before, we can do it again. Stay on the defence and for fuck’s sake, don’t let ’em get to you! Anyone getting those fucking Flyers a power play will be doing suicides ‘til they puke their lungs up when we get back. Got it?”

A few rumbles, nothing more. They got it.

”Lovely. Parson, wanna say a few words?”

”This ain’t a fucking funeral,” an older D-man cut in.

The laughter followed Kent as he stood, kept his eyes firmly off the floor, back straight. ”Right, you heard Coach. No stupid moves, no punching, this ain’t a fucking boxing match.”

Bubbles giggled.

”Unless it’s their mascot out there with a stick. Then punch all you fucking can. That thing’s a nightmare creature, and I want it to fucking die.”

Someone laughed, not many, enough for something to dislodge itself a little from Kent’s throat.

”Now get the fuck out of here and play!” Burke yelled. ”And by play I mean fucking win!”

No one moved. The lump in Kent’s throat returned full force until a hand pressed against his back, gave him a small push. “Oh, shit, right.”

Captain first, goalies last. They’d talked about that. At some point.

On the ice, below the red lights and too-loud rock music, the Flyers were already running, sticks raised, all clearly trying to avoid the orange abomination among them. Kent joined in without looking back, ignored the boos and whistles, the mascot shooting forward – as if it could smell him, and Kent wouldn’t be surprised, that thing was just _wrong_ \- death in its eyes and Kent in its path.

Setting the terrifying new mascot on the green captain. Not a bad move.

The baseball bat, however, was. Kent’s eyes widened, and he stepped to the side. How it had been allowed on the ice, he had no idea and really, _really_ didn’t want to know. It was probably made of plastic, he told himself once the furry monster was off the ice and his heart rate had gone down. _Probably_.

There was no time to think about it, not with the puck dropping and the Flyer captain’s stick leaping out, but it was already gone, tearing through the air to hit an orange jersey square-on.

First face-off in the NHL, but there was no time to stay on it as Carly flicked the puck off the ice before the Flyer could collect himself, passed to Rezzy already running, Kent and at least two Flyers hot on his heels. They made it as far as the offensive zone, Rezzy’s stick raised for a pass as the Flyer hit him, straight-on, no pretence, sent them sprawling on the ice in a horrible heap of black, orange and gold – nothing red, not yet.

Digging his heel in, Kent only just managed to turn and avoid joining the heap. The Flyer behind wasn’t so lucky, but the puck had been sent flying again, just past Kent and straight onto the stick of another teammate, and there was no time to think. By the time he turned around and set into motion, the Flyers were in the defensive zone, Pops dropped down, Sonny looking ready to kill at his side.

The first shot hit just as Kent stepped over the blue line, rebounded off Pops’ glove. The second, hit from the air and only a couple of feet from Kent, went in less than an inch from Pops’ ear. Playback would show his expression in full detail, all Russian rage and helplessness, but in the moment, no one saw anything.

“You’ll get it next time,” Kent tried, half a step towards centre ice. An afterthought, and Pops knew it, was the dark look sent Kent’s way anything to go by.

”If you will score next time.”

Perhaps he preferred democracy, too.

”Way to fucking go, cap,” Sonny whispered in the dressing room, damp hair and fire in his eyes.

”Fuck you,” Kent hissed back, just as the conversation of the room turned to a lull. A few guys turned their heads.

”Americans,” Pops huffed. ”No respect for elders.” Next to him, their newly acquired Belarusian D-man hummed in agreement.

Kent left without another word.

The video of him getting chased across the ice by the Flyers’ mascot made the highlight reels. Even some regular news. In the Aces locker room, it was never forgotten, and after a few years, Kent was able to laugh, too.

-/ \\-

Upon entering juniors, Kent remembered, he’d been scared of roadies. Or, not scared. Worried. Not about sharing a room with another guy, he managed dressing rooms well enough. Looking back, he couldn’t actually remember what had worried him so much, only that the worry had dissipated after the first trip, some time between Channer fucking around on the bus, Vixy falling asleep sitting straight up, and Jack Zimmermann looking out the window with drooping, blue eyes that seemed a million miles away.

There hadn’t been any worry entering the NHL. No room for it.

And there were worse guys rooming with than Pops, he thought one late October night in Seattle, watching the rain hit the windows of their room with a Bruins-Ducks game playing soundlessly on the small screen of his phone. Brand-new, expensive beyond belief. In the bathroom, Pops was singing what sounded like a Russian folk song, loud enough to hear in Vancouver.

Outside, the sky lit up. Kent almost got to three before the roar followed, all but shaking the hotel walls. It was a good thing they weren’t playing until the night after. No one sound of mind would be out in weather like that. He glanced at the wall separating the bathroom from the rest of the room. Except maybe Russians.

”What was that song?” he asked when Pops walked out a few minutes later, shirtless and somehow oiled up.

Pops lit up, just as the sky behind them did as well. ”Очи чёрные. Is old song, good. Novikov’s free skate this season, I have had in head since Éric Bompard.”

” … forget I asked.”

Kent had to strain his ears to hear the thunder cracking as Pops laughed. ”You Americans are so weird. Very narrow mind.”

Said the guy who talked about hitting women. “If you say so.”

Pops nodded to himself, plopped down on his bed.

”You going to sleep?”

The mountain of a man shook his head. ”Is too early. Guys will come soon.”

Kent frowned. “You guys still doing that?”

“Of course. Why would we not?”

“I dunno, ‘cause we’re in the fucking - “

A knock on the door cut Kent off, Pops launching himself off the bed to open. In burst Sonny and one of the older D-men. Simmons. Monster.

“Ready to go?”

Pops nodded, grabbed his coat and pulled on his boots.

“As I was trynna say, we’re in the fucking NHL, and you know the rules. No drinking before a fucking game – and no drinking on a fucking roadie!”

Three pairs of eyes settled on him, glanced at one another. Shrugged.

”Go to sleep, Parse. You know nothing, will not bother you.”

”It’ll bother me when we lose tomorrow.”

”Will not lose,” Pops smiled, gave his boots one last knot. “We play, and we win.”

And they did, more often than not these days. Kent, the vultures would say. Teamwork, the coaching staff insisted. Teamwork and two years of experience, figuring out what worked and what didn’t. A captain. Who was supposed to be able to control his teammates, be a good influence, and be appreciated for it.

Not for the first time, not by a long fucking shot, Kent missed being able to lock the door, climb into bed and press his chest as close to Jack’s back as physically possible. Tangle their fingers together. Listen to him breathe. They’d done so well together, two years back. A year and a half. The C and his A, the A and his C. That had been teamwork.

“Do whatcha want, I guess. But let’s see how the rest of the team feel aboutcha tomorrow when we get our asses kicked ’cause the goalie can’t keep himself standing.”

Pops snorted. ”Am Russian. Takes more to make me fall.”

”He’s right, you know,” Sonny added. ”You weren’t at the New Year’s party of 2009.”

Pops let out a bellowing laugh. At his side, Sonny’s eyes betrayed nothing but confidence.

Kent shrugged. ”It’s not like I actually give a shit what you do. Just don’t get caught by any paps, the last thing we need’s a fucking media - “

“That’s the spirit, Parse,” Sonny interrupted, slapped his shoulder. Kent didn’t flinch. “No use getting all up in arms. You’re new, you’ll learn how the league works one day. Don’t sweat it.”

”Hey, fuckers, you coming or what?”

With a last grin to Kent, Sonny stuck his head out the still-open door, gave someone that sounded suspiciously like Carly a thumbs up. ”We’ll be right there! Just dealing with a stick in the mud! Any more you’d like to say, Parse?”

Kent opened his mouth, but shook his head after a moment. No use.

“Awesome. Enjoy your night in.”

Monster slapped Kent’s back, nearly sent him stumbling, Pops, too, Sonny at last, but not before leaning in. “Get down from that high horse’a yours, kid. It doesn’t suit you.” His slap sent Kent stumbling a few steps back, a grin as the door slammed shut, and Kent was left in the silence.

Had he been younger, he would’ve found a pillow to scream into. Or punch. Something to uncurl the fist in the pit of his stomach pushing its way up his throat.

8.56 PM. To ‘Jack’

_how th fuck did u manage the c_

_its been three fukcing months and i feel lke im fucking everythin g up_

_i could really use u here man_

_fuck zimms would it kill u to answer once ina fucking whle???????_

10.59 PM. To ‘Jack’

_i miss u_

*

” - poor Dahl and I think that’s enough said about that.”

”And I think you’re right, Leonard, so let’s move on to the other game of the week – the Boston Bruins vs. the Las Vegas Aces. One hell of a goal in the second period, wouldn’t you say?”

”Impressive, that’s for sure. Parson really knows how to make ’em memorable.”

”For someone only in his second season, he’s not afraid of rustling some feathers.”

”But that’s Parson’s play, he’s not afraid of anyone on the ice. And if that translates to him off the ice, it’s no wonder he got the C. How’s that worked out for the Aces so far, would you say?”

“I mean, it’s not like we’ve seen much of it on the ice yet, and to be honest, I don’t think we will soon. The Aces are such individualist players, I don’t think they’d even follow him if he tried. Everyone just plays his own game - and that’s their strength, too! It’s impossible to figure out what they’re going to do next, what’s going to happen, and trying to change that would disrupt their entire playing style. Perhaps Parson’s just smart enough to have figured that out.”

“You don’t think that’s just a new-team kind of play, something to hold them up until they’re more settled and more used to each other? Something Parson should begin to work them away from?”

”That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it, Barry? We’ll have to wait and see on that one. And in the meantime, we can sit back and enjoy the chaos that is the Las Vegas Aces.”

”Now with captain.”

”Now with captain.”

-/ \\-

The Oiler hit from the side, sent Kent’s helmet scraping against the glass with a sound that echoed through his skull. Their sticks clacked together, fought for the puck neither controlled, and Kent bit down the pain, pushed it to the side towards Carly’s waiting stick before digging in his heel, letting the fucker go on ahead without him. A quick turn, and he was back on the ice, a handful of feet behind Carly bringing the puck around another Oiler, eyes set on the goal. Too early for a try, but it had to be soon. No one wanted to leave second period behind.

With a flick of the wrist, Carly passed the puck on, checked into the Oiler skating past him. Not enough for a penalty, but it would be soon. Ahead, Rezzy ran, managed exactly six feet before a D-man the size of an ox forced him to pass, too. To his left, Sonny changed course, dug in his heel, but an Oiler made it before him, shot the puck off mid-pass to a buddy at centre ice.

Kent swore, made a quick turn, but the puck was already in the defensive zone, Pops bent down and Scrappy ready to do what he did best. They could survive a penalty. Not a goal.

But there was no need. Another pass, bad Maths, and the tip of an Oiler’s skate made it across the blue line before the puck. A whistle blew, and the game came to a halt. Quick and easy, and Kent set back towards the offensive zone, caught up with Sonny.

“The fuck was that?”

Set jaw, hard eyes. Didn’t fucking scare him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were too fucking slow.”

“We can’t all be you.”

Kent grit his teeth, pushed his helmet back in place. “Do ya need to be switched out?”

Sonny’s skate dug in, forced Kent to a halt as well. “I don’t need shit, kid, but unless you shut your fucking mouth, you will.”

“Is that a fucking - “

At centre ice, the ref waved them over, an irritated look on his face, and Sonny was gone before Kent could finish his sentence.

The puck dropped again, was swiftly sent to the right. The other end of Kent’s stick hit the side of the Oiler captain’s helmet, but neither took any notice as they skated off, Carly already ahead. With a pass to Sonny – who caught it, this time, what a fucking miracle – he bypassed an Oiler, moved closer to the goal. A simple strategy, the Oilers would have a man on him soon, but if they hurried - 

For a heartbeat, Sonny glanced his way, just before sending the puck off to the side. Carly had to bounce to receive it, nearly fell on his fucking face, but was off before the Oiler could get him, passed a second later as another pulled up. The angle was off, and Kent grit his teeth, dove to the side. There was no saving, no strategising, just a hit just off the edge of his stick. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the puck sailed over the goalpost by half a foot.

The goalie grinned.

_Motherfucker_.

When the puck dropped again, the ref had to jump aside to avoid a slash to the shin. Kent didn’t see if he fell, ran as soon as the puck left the circle. Ahead, an Oiler was already running – fast, not as fast as Kent – and Scrappy passed the puck on.

The Oiler caught mid-pass – again, the _bastards_ \- but Sonny was on him before he could get it further away, pushed him against the glass. The sound of their sticks hitting together echoed across the ice, could be heard miles away.

Everything felt larger on the ice.

Off whose stick the puck came free was impossible to tell, but it came to rest by Scrappy’s, who made move to shoot. Kent turned, ran as fast as his legs could take him as the puck sailed over his head, landed a good twenty feet from him, right at the feet of an Oiler. The look on his face was priceless, but there was no time for surprise, no time for anything other than a pass to a nearby teammate ready to run.

And run he did, with Kent hot on his heels and Pops’ eyes firmly on him from between the pipes. It was a long way, but there were seconds left on the clock. Team morale.

Before the fucker could make it to the defensive zone, Carly came in from the right, hit hard enough for a stumble, not enough for a penalty, passed the puck on to Sonny a mere couple of inches off another Oiler’s stick.

It was almost beautiful, but beauty was another thing there was no time for.

They crossed centre ice together, half the rink’s width apart, eight seconds left. Rezzy would join them soon, but with the Oilers piling up around the goal, not fucking soon enough. Kent grit his teeth and upped his speed, firmly ignoring the burn in his thighs. He was in front now, closer to the goal than Sonny, as were at least two other Oilers, both heading towards him, but there would be time. If only - 

They locked eyes.

Adrenaline shot through Kent’s body as he raised his stick, mimicked Sonny, but confusion took its place as the puck went towards the goal. Only when it hit the goalie’s glove - as it would, there was no _fucking_ way it could have made it in, not with that angle, not with that speed - came the anger.

Another thing there was no time nor place for on the fucking ice.

The Q all over again, except Kent would rather choke on his own dick than swallow down Sonny’s.

Throwing himself forward, Kent caught the Oilers off-guard enough to make it past the first line of defence, threw another off just enough to make his pass crook. It wasn’t much, but it had to be enough. Kicking himself back upwards, Kent grabbed hold of the puck, moved to the only unprotected part of the zone. The glass. A stupid move, pathetic, but there wasn’t time to think. Rezzy had come in, Carly just behind him, Sonny nowhere to be seen, but the goalie’s eyes were on him, a D-man advancing at a speed that was going to fucking kill him.

There was never any fucking time on the ice.

For the briefest of moments, an Oiler stepped to the side, Rezzy to the other, and Kent took the shot. He barely had a chance to close his eyes and brace himself before the D-man crushed into him.

Had he had an opportunity to think, he would’ve noticed how the man slowed down. Or tried to. No one was stupid enough not to run.

He hit the glass hard, enough for any last breath to be pushed out of his lungs and the stick in his hands, now caught between them, moving dangerously close to his nose. Instinctively, Kent threw his head back, winced at the pain, bit down any sounds.

Together, they slid for a few painful feet before coming to an equally painful halt. Kent opened his eyes again, only to see Sonny check another Oiler a few feet from them.

They shouldn’t have been able to get that close.

The Oiler on him was sliding back, and he scrambled, abandoned his stick to the ice, but it was futile. A scream tore through the air as the second Oiler hit, shoulder with the majority of his weight to Kent’s knee. They fell together, a mess of limbs and sticks and red spots colouring his vision, but he barely felt the ice, nor the weight landing on top of him. A whistle blew, and he barely heard it, not above the pain shooting up from his knee, spreading throughout his entire body until his lungs constricted. The weight was lifted off him, a hand came down on his shoulder, but Kent didn’t move to get up, instead let out a blood-curdling scream as it tried to turn him over, moved his leg just a little. The hand flew away.

At some point, a stretcher was pulled onto the ice, and he was asked to hold someone’s hand, squeeze down until the medics had moved him. Above him, Scrappy’s face blanched, and Kent couldn’t imagine he looked any better. He was crying, painfully aware of that, but there was no stopping it.

“Has the ambulance been called?” someone asked on the bench, and Kent wanted to tell him to shut his fucking mouth, but the words were stuck in his throat as someone put their hands on his skate and _pulled_.

He didn’t pass out. God wasn’t that fucking merciful. Instead, a hand came down over his mouth, drowned out the sound, pulled out his mouth guard as someone else gently removed his shin pads. Kent closed his eyes, tried to breathe, counted his own heartbeats until he was moved again, and cold hit his skin, and a mask was placed over his mouth and nose. Within seconds, darkness took over, and unconsciousness hit like a kiss.

*

“You’re lucky the bastard didn’t break your fucking leg,” Burke said a few hours later, sipping a coffee by Kent’s bedside. Outside, Edmonton was showing itself at its worst side. Grey and dead.

”’m too fast for him,” Kent said around a glass of water.

Burke let out a rasping guffaw. ”You’re too fast for all of ’em. They’d kill you if you weren’t.”

Kent’s lips would crack if he smiled. ”When am I out of here?”

”Of the hospital? Or the cast?”

Right. Cast. There was a cast. ”Hospital.”

”A day or two, I think. The doctors here are fucking dictators, you should’ve heard ‘em when we first got you in. At least they got you on the table pretty quick, wouldn’t have been - “

”And then a month at home.”

Burke nodded. “At the very least. Soon as you’re good to fly.”

“I’m not concussed, too, am I?”

Burke smiled, teeth all but shining against the clouds outside. ”No. Wish I had some of that luck, would’ve saved me a lot of trouble when I was your age. Still, you took a bit of a hit to the head. And you’re dehydrated. So if you’re feeling woozy, that’s why.”

Kent nodded. ”Can you get a nurse for me?”

Burke frowned. ”Why? You feeling that bad?”

”Nah, just really need to piss.”

Another round of guffaws. ”They gave you a fucking bag, kid.”

”No.”

”They did, it - ”

”No.” More insistent. More than he had the energy for.

”I’ll be right back.”

It was a woman, at least, old and patient. Matronly. When he returned, Burke was still there. Kent wasn’t sure why that surprised him as much as it did.

”You got anyone at home?”

“I’ll be fine.”

”Is there anyone I can call for you? You’ve got a mother in New York, right? PR was kinda shifty about that - “

Of course they were. Kent hadn’t given them shit.

He could tell Burke. Right there and then, weak as he was and with a couple of pillows in reach of them both. Give him the whole fucking truth.

He was on too much medication.

”It’s fine. And I’d like to be alone, if that’s alright. Sleep off whatever shit they’ve given me.”

“If you’re sure.”

And he was, and Burke knew it. With a brief nod – no touching, not for him – he left, the sound of his shoes echoing through the hall until they, too, disappeared, and Kent was alone.

A whole fucking month.

-/ \\-

8.43 PM. To ‘Jack’

_~~where are y~~ _

_~~can i ca~~ _

_~~i miss~~ _

_~~i need~~ _

“T’as téléphoné à _Jack Zimmermann_. Laissez un message après - “

[Delete ‘Jack’ from contacts?]

[yes] [no]

*

The music could be heard in the street, and Kent grinned, blinked away the wooziness of the painkillers he’d swallowed earlier that evening, the faint beat of pain in his knee beneath it.

Inside, the music was even louder, settled in his bones and tore them to shreds, destruction hidden in smoke and lights, and Kent wanted to breathe it all in and drown in it. Bypassing the bar, he headed straight for the dance floor, the constant mingling and rhythmic intertwining of bodies. A guy in a muscle shirt pressed against him, and Kent pressed back, followed by one with a buzzcut, one with a ponytail that leaned in for a kiss, and Kent let him. It was sloppy and wet and Kent had no idea what the other man’s hands were doing, but he wasn’t complaining. When the man pulled back, spotting someone he knew or someone he found more attractive and disappearing, Kent couldn’t remember what he looked like.

In the middle of the dance floor, in the eye of the hurricane, Kent was on fucking fire.

A man bumped into him, and he nearly fell over, steadied himself on the bare and deliciously muscular shoulder of someone who gave a drunk smile and slid a hand around his waist.

”You good?”

”Fucking peachy!”

The man laughed, squeezed his waist before returning to his dance, disappeared in the crowd within the blink of an eye.

Straightening his back, Kent turned towards the bar. A hand brushed against his ass, brushed again and squeezed, and Kent grinned at the guy, gave him a quick kiss before heading over. The bartender glanced at him, waited for an order, and Kent opened his mouth when his eyes landed on the guy next to him. Tall, ginger, freckles on every inch of revealed skin. The exact fucking opposite of - 

”Whatcha drinking?”

The guy frowned.

”I said, whatcha drinking?” Kent yelled.

”It’s scotch!” the guy yelled back. ”Want some?”

”Sure!”

Their hands touched on the glass, too close and too long for it to be an accident. Kent didn’t pull back, ran a finger over the back of the guy’s hand instead and brought the glass to his lips, didn’t as much as flinch as the scotch burned his throat.

”’s good!”

The guy’s smile widened, and a hand came to rest on the junction of Kent’s hip. For a long moment, Kent waited for the heat of him to seep through, to burn into his skin, but nothing came.

”I’m Aaron!” the man – Aaron – said, leaned in closer. Cologne. Not cheap, not quite expensive, either.

”Kent!”

“Ken?”

The scotch burned. “Kent!”

”Kent,” Aaron repeated. Looked him up and down. Met Kent’s eyes again and smiled. “Your place or mine?”

Empty and quiet, bathed in the neon lights of the Strip. Hockey bags on the floor. “Yours.”

“Sure thing,” Aaron replied, and kissed him. And Kent let him.

The air was colder as they left the club, cold enough for Kent to press against Aaron’s side, seeking warmth that wasn’t there. Not that he needed it.

“It’s pretty close, I’ve got a – hey, watch where you’re going!”

The push was hard, almost sent Kent sprawling onto the pavement, but they avoided the group of men, loud, bearded, jersey-wearing - 

Black jerseys. Gold details. White print.

Somehow, the scotch burned even more the other way. Kent swallowed.

”What was up with those guys?”

Kent shrugged, pretended air was still entering and leaving his body. ”Dunno. Probably a hockey match or some shit. Their team must’ve won.”

Aaron frowned. ”There’s a hockey team in Vegas?”

”Think so.” Kent cleared his throat. “You said close?”

And it was, barely a quarter mile they cleared bumping into each other every so often, each time sending small sparks of electricity down Kent’s spine and pangs of something else he refused to name. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind them, warm lips settled against his jaw, moved to his neck, ear, mouth at last, and Kent kissed back with all his might. By the time they made it to Aaron’s door, Kent’s flannel had been done up, Aaron’s, too, and neither noticed as it slammed shut behind them.

Kent’s back hit the wall hard enough for a groan to escape him, swallowed by Aaron as he pressed against him, thigh wedging between Kent’s until he ground down on it.

“Like that?”

“Shut up,” Kent muttered, drew their mouths back together, rolled his hips down again. A moan tore through the air between them, his or Aaron’s, another as Kent bit down on his bottom lip and moved to his jaw to suck in a bruise.

On his hip, Aaron’s hand tightened, just on the right side of painful. ”I have a bedroom, you know.”

If he didn’t leave with a bruise, he’d be fucking disappointed. “Then let’s fucking go.”

Strong hands pulled him off the wall, pushed him ahead with a tongue in his mouth that wasn’t his, an undeniable hardness against his. Before he knew it, a door shut behind them, and Kent was pushed down, hit a bed with a groan and a body following, pressing him down. Between his legs, but the tongue in his mouth left little room for thought, little room for anything that wasn’t pulling him closer in. Only when the cold hit his skin did Kent realise he was no longer wearing a shirt, Aaron, neither, Aaron who pulled back and let his eyes roam over Kent’s body. Dark eyes, pupils blown impossibly wide, a pang of pride in Kent’s chest.

”Fuck, you an athlete or something?”

Kent grinned. ”Maybe.”

”That’s fucking hot, dude.”

The mouth returned, hard and unrelenting, hands travelling down his stomach until Kent’s upper body surged up and Aaron laughed into his mouth. Biting his lip again, Kent earned himself a groan, another mark sucked into his neck, thumbs pressing into the inner parts of thighs through his jeans. Looping his arms around Aaron’s neck, Kent pulled him in closer, used the sudden leverage to move a leg around his hip and flip them over. They landed crotch against crotch with dual gasps and Kent shuddered lightly before leaning down and kissing Aaron again.

Fingers slipped through his hair, and Kent moaned until they tugged, gently at first, then harder, enough for Kent’s hips to grind down on their own and his eyes to close. There was another smile, but he kissed it away. A hand moved to his ass and squeezed, and Kent let him. Ground down again until the tightness of his jeans turned painful and he let Aaron pull them off, palmed him through his jeans before pushing those off as well.

“Fuck,” Aaron groaned. “You don’t play nice, do you?”

Kent didn’t answer, kissed him firmer, let Aaron hook his thumbs in his waistband and pull down. Let the last of their clothing hit the floor.

Point of no return, and Aaron pushed himself up with one hand, pulled Kent in for a sloppy kiss with the other on the nape of his neck. Kent returned in kind, grabbed at his shoulders, gasped as Aaron’s hands moved to his ass and pulled him into his lap. Squeezed.

“Please tell me I can fuck you.”

_Jack, beneath him, flushed and warm, gasping as Kent moved inside of him, legs on each side of his hips and Kent never wanted it to end -_

“No.” Kent swallowed, kissed away Aaron’s response. If there was any. “But if y’wanna blow me I’m not fucking stopping ya.”

A hand on his chest pushed him down, nearly knocked the breath out of him, and Aaron was there before he could get it back, lips on his and a hand sliding up his leg, pushing it slightly to the side. A pang of fear shot up Kent’s spine, and he almost pushed him off when the mouth on his moved to his jaw, his neck, his chest. Down, down, down, lukewarm lips and lukewarm hands on his thighs, massaging the sensitive skin.

“Condom,” Kent breath, and Aaron stilled.

“Don’t worry, I’m - “

“Condom.”

Not a plea, not a question, and Aaron drew back, rummaged around a drawer while Kent caught his breath. There was a crack in the ceiling, small, almost unnoticeable, but there.

The condom was cold against him, cold enough for a hiss to press itself past his lips, but Aaron said nothing, rolled it on unceremoniously before pressing a kiss to Kent’s thigh, a quick nip before taking him in mouth.

Kent threw his head back, bit down the moan threatening to escape him until his lip throbbed. His hand gripped at the sheets as Aaron went down further, pulled off, licked the saliva he’d left off before moving down again, tongue twirling at the head of him, and Kent tasted copper.

Jack hadn’t been this good. He’d been good, so fucking good, but not like this. He would be, one day, and Kent would be ready for him, then.

The thought hit him as he hit the back of Aaron’s throat and a moan tore its way out his throat. On his thighs, Aaron’s fingers dug in, left crescent-shaped bruises Kent would count come morning, scrub off in the shower along with the memories.

He came with a cry and the memory of Jack’s lips and off-white liquid on his cheek behind his eyelids. He’d be ready.

”Good?” Aaron asked, voice raspy from misuse, and in lieu of answering, Kent pulled him up for a kiss, tasted saliva and latex and pushed him down. Settled between his legs. Pulled out a condom from where Aaron pointed, rolled it on with unpractised movements, but Aaron’s eyes were already closed, and had he had any protests, any thoughts, they left as Kent’s lips settled around them and a moan took their place.

Six months, and his gag reflex had returned with a vengeance, but Kent pushed it down, ignored the sting in his eyes, the burn in his throat as he went down further, moved, tried to build up something resembling a rhythm. Aaron was smaller than Jack, less of a stretch, less painful, but the fingers tightening in his hair didn’t hesitate as much as Jack’s had. He’d learn, some day.

It took long, longer than Jack, long enough for Kent to doubt himself until Aaron’s breath hitched and his hips buckled. He hit the back of Kent’s throat hard enough for another wave of nausea, but Kent swallowed it down, swallowed Aaron again and kept moving, ignored the overwhelming ache in his jaw, the pain in his knee threatening to give out beneath him. At last, Aaron went limp, and Kent pulled off, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

”Jesus fucking Christ.”

Kent cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”

Aaron laughed. ”You’re welcome? Shit, you’re a fucking riot, you know that?”

Feeling suddenly and incredibly naked, Kent shrugged. Drew his arms up around himself. ”Sure.”

Beneath him, Aaron opened his mouth, but Kent couldn’t let him speak. Couldn’t hear what he had to say. Didn’t want to.

His underwear wasn’t too far away, almost hidden behind a stack of books on Russian literature of all things, and he stood from the bed, almost fell on his face from the shaking of his legs and hurried to put them on.

”Do you want to - ”

”Sorry,” Kent interrupted, clearing his throat when the words burned their way out. ”I have to go.”

”Sure.”

Without looking back, Kent pulled on the rest of his clothes.

”Take care, man,” Aaron said as he left, still lying on his bed naked as the day he was born. It was a nice sight, Kent had to admit. Nauseating.

“You, too,” he said, pulled on his shoes in the hallway without tying them, shut the door behind him a little harder than strictly necessary. Shaking hands.

He didn’t look back as he walked home, hands in his pockets and a limp that only grew with every block. The apartment was silent as he let himself in, always was, and he wasted no time pulling off his clothes, throwing them in the hamper once he got to the bedroom. After a second of thought, he pulled them out again, headed straight for the washing machine, threw them in unceremoniously and pressed start. For a long second, he stood and watched the machine begin its turns, listened to the monotony. Only when cold once more started creeping beneath his skin did he go back to the bedroom, swallowed down another painkiller, fell asleep before his head hit the pillow.

*

[no]

9.51 AM. To ‘Jack’

_yuore not the only guy ive fukced now_

_i hoep yuore happy_

_~~u were bett~~ _

_~~i miss u~~ _

-/ \\-

Turned out there were dumpsters behind the Aces’ rink, too. Probably were behind all rinks. The sight made Kent’s chest ache, and he hurried inside as fast as the crutches the trainer had taken one look at his knee and promptly shoved in his face would take him. The roars of the crowd were audible as soon as the door shut behind him, and another ache took over. Worth it not taking the main entrance, he reminded himself and pushed forward. Nothing he could avoid forever.

A security guard’s eyes widened as he trotted up to the entrance of the rink.

Kent’s smirk was back in place before he had a chance to think about it. ”’sup,” he greeted, nodded at the door the man was still standing in front of. ”Do I need to buy a ticket, y’think?”

The guard’s face moved into something that wasn’t a grimace, wasn’t a smile, but he moved aside, stepped in and opened the door after a second of thought.

”Thanks, man.”

”Um - ”

Kent paused, eyebrow raised, smirk just on the right side of playful.

The security guard cleared his throat. “You’re probably heading in for the game, but if you’ve got a second - “

Kent nodded to the pen the man had drawn from his chest pocket. ”Got some paper, too?” 

A slightly rumpled pad, a grateful smile, and Kent smiled back. Resting the crutch against his side, he scrawled down his name. Like he’d practised as a kid. Wasn’t quite tired of yet. ”For you?”

The man blinked. ”No, for my son.”

”What’s his name?”

”Uh, Wayne.”

Kent grinned. ”After Gretzky?”

A smile, almost bashful. Nice on his face. ”Officially after my wife’s grand uncle. She doesn’t know much about hockey.”

”Does Wayne?”

”Absolutely. He’s a really big fan of yours.”

Kent widened his grin. ”Tell him thanks for me. And to do his homework.”

The man smiled, almost laughed. “I will. Thank you so much.”

“’course. Have a good one. Thanks for keeping us safe,” Kent added before slipping through to the rink. Fifteen minutes late, but Burke would have to deal.

“You’re welcome,” he heard behind him, but the smirk had already fallen. On the ice, the first period was well under way, the puck in the Aces’ defence. Between the pipes, Pops had dropped down, Sonny like a grim guardian by his side, eyes moving between two Canucks, a third moving in from behind. Across the rink, Rezzy and Bubbles were racing away from the Canucks’ goal to help.

The puck hit the back of the net before they even made it centre ice.

There was nothing they could’ve done, but Kent still grimaced, hobbled the rest of the way to the bench.

”Parser!” Swoops grinned, slapped Lutz’ side.

”’sup fuckers,” Kent greeted in turn. ”Didja miss me?”

”We’re behind one goal and the game’s barely started. So, yeah, I’d say we could use you out there,” Swoops replied. Next to him, Lutz nodded.

”Don’t disturb the players,” Burke’s voice broke through.

”Sorry, coach,” Kent drawled. ”Just wanted to come by and say hi.”

As if he hadn’t been ordered.

”Then get your fucking ass down before you fall over. We’ve made some changes in the defence. As captain, you need to be aware and ready for that when you return.”

”Nice to see ya, too, Coach,” Kent muttered, poked at Swoops’ shin pad with a crutch. ”Mind moving your butt a little? I’m kinduva cripple here in case ya haven’t noticed.”

Swoops grinned and complied.

On the ice, the face-off had come and gone. The Aces were in defence before Kent had the chance to place his crutch next to him. “Shit.”

”You don’t fucking say.”

The new defence wasn’t bad, Kent had to admit, but it took from the offence more than the team could bear. It wouldn’t be long before the Canucks realised it, the rest of the league, too, but perhaps they’d have perfected it, then. Figured it out, at least.

”Do ya want me to say something in the dressing room?” Kent asked as the horn blew away the first period.

Burke glanced back, like a God might at a creation made on a day of hard drinking. ”You’re the fucking captain, Parson. Start acting like it.”

”Didn’t fucking ask for that,” Kent muttered to his already retreating back, heaved himself up and started limping. Waved off Scrappy’s offer to help. When he finally made it to the dressing room, Burke was already red in the face from yelling, and Kent considered just walking out again when his eyes met Sonny’s. Down to his knee, up again, and something hard and hot moulded itself even tighter in Kent’s stomach.

With a final huff, Burke went quiet, folded his arms in front of his chest. Had looks been able to kill, no Ace would’ve left the room alive, Kent included.

Time to face the fucking music.

”That was fucking pathetic to watch. I’ve seen girls’ peewee teams play better than that.”

”Then why don’t you get out there and do it better?” Prompt and disillusioned. Merciless, because captains didn’t deserve mercy. Shouldn’t need it.

”I’d love to, but fact is my knee’s fucked.” If he glanced towards Sonny, no one seemed to notice. No reaction. ”So for now it’s all up to you. Time to prove the Aces aren’t just relying on one almost-rookie.”

”Fuck you!”

”Fuck you, too! You’re out there looking pathetic as fuck! You may be a new team, but you’re fucking Stanley Cup champions, and you gotta fucking show the world why you deserve to call yourselves that!”

”You just gonna yell at us, or are you planning on actually saying something?” Bubbles asked, his usually calm expression morphed into something that might end up dangerously close to Kent’s face if he wasn’t careful. Next to him, Rezzy snorted.

So much for the fucking C.

”You need to focus more on attacking,” Kent said, as calm as he could. ”I know you’ve got a new strategy, but you’re not making any goals, and it won’t be long ‘til the fuckers out there realise you won’t be. And when they do, I’ll bet my jersey they’ll drop the foreplay you’ve got going on now faster than Rezzy’s wife’ll drop her drawers and fuck you right in the ass.”

“Wanna say that to my fucking face, puto?”

“You don’t think we’re trying out there?” Monster asked. “Working our fucking asses off? Or don’t you count work ‘til it kills us?”

Kent’s hand tightened its grip on the crutch, just as Carly glanced between the two of them, and Swoops spoke up before anything could erupt.

“You’re buying us all drinks after this, right?”

“The fuck - “

“Sure.” Kent shifted his weight, alleviated the burn in his right calf. “Sure, I’ll getcha fucked up. If one of you gets me a fucking goal.”

“And you better,” Burke interrupted. ”Now get some water, say your prayers. You’ve got five minutes.”

Kent exhaled as attention left him. Alone on the edge of the room.

“You call the playing pathetic … “

“I’m doing my best.”

“Sure you are, kid.” Burke snorted. “Might help you saying ‘we’ instead of ‘you’ next time. If you want them thinking you’re part of the team. Might help you spending some time with them, too.”

Kent huffed, but Burke was already gone, yelling something at Pops cleaning his ear. He could take the fucking C and shove it up his fucking _ass_.

Six more months. Worse places to live, better places to die.

-/ \\-

“ - and McMurray scoring off Petronijevic on the rebound, and if that ain’t a beaut, I don’t know what is.”

“I quite agree, Leonard, that was a well-baked biscuit in the oven. Clyde didn’t know what hit ‘im!”

“Almost makes you feel bad for the coach, look at him here just after the goal.”

“Yes, someone’s doing drills for a few days, that’s for sure. And speaking of drills, the Las Vegas Aces meeting the Calgary Flames last night. On a scale from one to ten, how upset is Anthony Burke right now, do you think?”

“I don’t think it’s much higher than a four, actually. After their first season, he has to be used to new results every night. They all but obliterated the Leafs three days ago – remember Suárez’ goal? No one can be angry at that, I don’t even think the goalie was – and with Bernstein out with that concussion, I think they’ve got some pretty good chances against the Capitols next week. So disappointed? Obviously, anyone would be after a game like that, but I doubt it’s going to have a lasting effect on the team.”

“Would you say the defeat has anything to do with the elephant in the room? Or, not in the room.”

“Parson’s injury? It’s a weakness, that’s for sure, losing their top-scorer and captain for this long, but the Aces are an adaptable team. They’re dealing with it.”

“Yes, we’ve seen quite a bit of growth in the teamwork on the ice this season, even compared to last year - not to mention the year before that! - but I believe Parson’s absence is something that hurts.”

“Oh, no doubt. Still, it’s a good test of the team, especially with four months left until playoffs, to strengthen the team without falling into the trap that is building everything around Parson as it looked like they were trying last season.”

“Yes, that would’ve been disastrous.”

“Especially with Parson’s contract being out this summer.”

“You don’t think they’re going to re-sign him?”

“No, they will, they’d be stupid not to. Question is whether Parson wants to stay.”

“You think he might not?”

“To be completely honest, Barry, I have no idea. If I had to try and get into his head - “

*

6.47 PM. From ‘Ma’

_i know youre angry with me but i need u to know ur always welcome_

_no matter what_

9.27 PM. From ‘Ma’

_even if u dont want to talk im a nurse and ur injured_

_if nohing else come by for that_

_or let me come to u_

11.37 PM. To ‘Ma’

_its ok_

_it just needs time_

11.50 PM. From ‘Ma’

_i love u_

11.59 PM. To ‘Ma’

_~~i lov~~ _

_~~i l~~ _

_i love u too_

-/ \\-

Rezzy opened the door mid-sentence and with a beer in hand. As his eyes fell on Kent, his face broke into a large grin. ”What the fuck, bro!” He turned back to whoever was inside. ”Fuckin’ Parser’s here!”

”You did invite me,” Kent said, stepping inside. The smell of stale of beer and too many bodies pressed together in one place was in the air, nauseatingly so.

”It’s almost eleven, we didn’t think you’d come!”

Kent smirked, stale with the brandy he’d had before pushing himself out the door. “Thought I’d see what all the fucking fuss was about. I brought chips, if it helps.”

“Always does, bro.” A slap on his back, the door closing behind him. No going back. “Enjoy the party!”

And he was alone again, alone in a kitchen with a glass of scotch and in a living room with Bubbles making googly eyes at his girlfriend and Pops’ laughter breaking every conversation. A welcome disturbance to some, a punch to his shoulder by others. Kent smiled, hid it in a glass of brandy. Or beer. Expensive shit. Far better than the piss they had in the Q, that he’d tasted on - 

Scotch was better than brandy, he decided. Not as good as whiskey, whiskey was amazing, but far superior to wine. He wasn’t a wine kind of guy.

“You just haven’t had the right one,” Lutz insisted, slipped off into a presentation about France and grape varieties Kent couldn’t care less about but which was blessedly dulled by the scotch. Or brandy. Who even cared at this point.

An arm slung around Kent’s neck – expensive cologne, warm breath, the stench of alcohol between them – “We’re getting outta here.”

Kent shivered. “Why?”

Somewhere in another room – far away – voices were raising, rising above each other and the music and the haze of alcohol.

“Swoops necked Mattie’s girlfriend, I think it’s gearing up to a fight. So we’re fleeing that.”

“Okay,” Kent said, tried to decide whether to pull his face away from Carly’s neck or snuggle into it. Pull away. Definitely pull away.

They left the house in a heap, half the team, three quarters, Mattie still yelling inside. At some point, Kent could swear he saw Swoops, too, a bruise blooming on his chin and a grin in his eyes.

“Down the street,” he thought he heard someone say, but it was difficult to tell.

Still, down the street they went, walked into a bar like they fucking owned it – and they did, Stanley Cup champions, fucking _legends_ \- and stumbled over a couple of chairs. Kent laughed, lost the sound in music and shots, laughed even harder as a girl slapped Lutz across the face.

“Rule number one,” Swoops told one of the rookies. “Don’t grab a stripper’s ass without asking. Or paying first.”

Kent grinned, downed another shot. Across the bar, a guy did the same, raised another at Kent, who shrugged at the empty counter in front of him. The guy frowned, gestured at the bartender, and soon enough he was handed another shot, another raised glass.

“Give ‘im one back, yeah?” Kent asked.

Another smile, another raised glass, and something in Kent’s stomach fluttered. Pooled. There were teammates all around him, everywhere and out of sight, too drunk to care about anything beyond their own dicks.

Across the bar, a woman moved in, ordered something above the guy’s shoulder, pushed her tits in another guy’s face and stayed there as he responded. Apologised to the guy as she nearly pushed him off the stool, but he waved it off, offered her his spot. Glanced at Kent for a long second before walking over, plopping down on the empty stool next to his.

“Nice tags. Military brat?”

Not bad looking. Nice beard. “Sure.”

“Me, too. Wanna drink on that?”

The arm not holding his glass was resting on his thigh, hand a little too close to Kent’s. Too low to see, too casual for anyone to think thrice. Kent wet his lips, ran a finger over the rim of his glass. “Sure.”

The guy’s lips tasted like whiskey, an undercurrent of sweetness that made Kent’s hands clammy where they fisted the lapels of his shirt, drew him in. Nothing artificial, nothing overly soft, calloused fingers sneaking up past his shirt and burning marks into his skin. There were Aces, somewhere, but not in a dark hallway leading to rooms where the stench of sweat and disinfectant hid any and all sins imaginable.

What was one more?

A hand moved to his ass, squeezed, and Kent grinned the guy’s mouth and pulled at his belt buckle. It was stupid, so fucking stupid, but alcohol burned like ice beneath his skin, and Jack was in Montréal, and he had five months to go in Vegas. Nothing fucking mattered.

A gasp broke between them, and Kent kissed it away, moved his hand further down, pressed against his bulge until the guy gasped again and grasped at Kent’s shoulders. There was a tremble in his back, and Kent pressed against it, stilled himself in the rhythm until they were both panting, flushed and far too hot. There was a door to his left, and Kent’s hand sought the handle, found it, turned it with a fumbling he in any other situation would’ve laughed off. There was no need for laughter.

They stumbled in a mess, the guy’s mouth on Kent’s neck, his hands in his hair, Kent’s tugging at his shirt. Unaware of everything until the door shut and something moved in a corner of his eye, and he had the guy pushed off before he could as much as react, stomach plummeting and adrenaline kicking in far above the alcohol, froze the fire in a split-second.

Tall, broad shoulders, buzzcut. Aces’ t-shirt.

Sonny’s eyes widened, and Kent felt a bag over his head, a guy twice his size skating into him at full speed, murder in his eyes, Jack pale and cold on a bathroom floor.

“Sorry, bro, we didn’t - “

“Get out.”

The guy shut up, glanced at Kent.

“I said, get the _fuck_ outta here, you deaf or something?”

If there were any more protests, Kent didn’t hear them, didn’t fucking care as Sonny glanced between the two of them, the swollen lips, the hickeys, the hair and clothes askew. The clear and utter stupidity Kent had somehow gotten himself into, the one fucking lesson the Q had taught him, the one _fucking_ mistake he’d promised himself he’d never repeat.

Sonny took a step to the side, tried to hide whatever he’d been doing, but he was too slow, or maybe time had just stopped because Kent saw - 

White.

Frowning, he looked again. Lines of white. Powder. Something that looked eerily like a credit card in Sonny’s hand. He sniffed, and it was Kent’s turn to widen his eyes, glance between Sonny and what was undoubtedly cocaine on the table.

“You fucking hypocrite.”

It was a stupid thing to say, but Kent had nothing else, nothing that could even come close, and if he was going to die in that room, the filthy VIP suite of a filthy club in the filthiest city in America, he wasn’t going to die silent.

“You fucking queer,” Sonny said back, tightened his hold on the credit card. Like he was going to cut Kent’s throat with it, and maybe he was. And maybe Kent didn’t fucking care, not with the alcohol still in his veins, the ice turned to anger, the anger turned to ice. He took a step forward, another as Sonny watched him, kept going until they were an arm’s length apart and he could smell the sweat of him. See the glistening nasal fluids on his upper lip. The way barely any green surrounded his pupils.

“I may be a fucking queer,” Kent said, whispered below the music, screamed in Sonny’s face. “But I’m not the one snorting fucking coke, so who’s the fucking loser here, _eh_?”

Something flashed across Sonny’s face, something dangerous that in any other setting would’ve made Kent run, but he was beyond running. He was sick and fucking tired of running.

“You tell on me, I’ll tell on you,” Sonny said, whispered, screamed. “We’ll see what management’s willing to deal with.”

“A fag top-scorer or a cokehead nearing retirement.”

Sonny grimaced. “A secret for a secret.”

And perhaps it was. Perhaps it could be. Nodding, not daring anything else, Kent turned on his heel. The door slammed shut behind him, silent beneath the music, the noise, and all of it far away. With a grin in goodbye to the Aces that weren’t Sonny, thin and stretched across his face like a cut, Kent walked into the night air, drew his flannel closer around him as he walked, anger moving up his throat as acid.

Five more months.

Five more months and he was out of there.

-/ \\-

“Call me when you get this.”

*

“Come on, man. Pick up your phone.”

*

“Zimms, pick up your fucking phone, I’m getting real fucking tired of your shit.”

*

“Jesus fucking Christ, y’don’t wanna talk to me, cool! Just – fuck it.”

*

“What the fuck’re ya thinking – there’s five fucking months ‘til June, if we don’t get a plan in place soon, you won’t stand a fucking chance! Your Dad won’t even be able to getcha in somewhere – fuck, Zimms, you’re throwing your fucking chances away! I just need to know – if you keep waiting, it’s gonna be _over_ , do you understand that? Fuck the overdose, fuck _me_ , no one’ll wanna touch ya if y’don’t put in some fucking work! Fuck - call me, tell me you’ve got a plan, just – fucking _call me_ , you asshole!”

*

“Le numéro t’as appelé est n’employé plus - “

Kent tore the phone from his ear as had it burned him, stared at the screen for a long second as the message came to an end, shut without a beep and left him in ringing silence.

It had to be a mistake. There was no way - 

“Le numéro t’as appelé - “

Or a fucking nightmare.

It had to be.

-/ \\-

“Welcome back.”

Kent glanced up, returned the receptionist’s smile. “Thanks, miss Parker. It’s good to be back.”

“We’ve definitely missed seeing you.” She looked to both sides and leaned forward, dropped her voice into a stage whisper. ”Not that many hockey players that don’t look like Neanderthals.”

“I’ve certainly missed ya, too.”

She winked. He lifted his chin at her.

The locker room was loud, quieted down as soon as he stepped foot inside.

Five months. ”What’s up, fuckers, hope ya didn’t miss me too much.”

”We’ve been dying without you,” Swoops replied in a perfect monotone.

”Welcome back, ’cap’,” Rezzy greeted. ”Good to see you ain’t on too high a horse to stoop down to us peasants again.”

”Fuck you, I’ve been injured.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Sonny looked away. Kent bit his cheek.

Before anyone got the chance to say any more, start a fight, break into song, Bubbles stumbled into the room with a wide grin on his face that turned even wider as his eyes landed on Kent. ”Miss Parker told me to give you this!”

He thrust his palm forward. Kent carefully picked up the small, stuffed Ace of Spades. ”Thanks?”

”Tell miss Parker that!” Bubbles winked. ”I think she’d appreciate it.”

”I’ll thank her, you fucking asshole.”

”What, Parser’s finally gonna get laid?” Carly, far too close, far too excited. ”I don’t know what you’ve done, Parse, but you’re a lucky fucking bastard! Ace of Spades means pussy!”

He almost laughed. Almost. ”What makes you think I haven’t already done her?”

Silence fell once more, broken as Carly let out a loud hoot of joy. ”Fucking get it, Parse! Fucking get it _in_!”

Someone punched his shoulder. ”Wish it were me, bro. She’s fucking smoking.”

“Good luck.” Kent grinned, thin and fake and enough. Always was. “You’ll need it.”

Another punch, and Kent dumped his bag in his stall. Ignored the way Sonny was staring at him, the way his pupils were still too large. Not like they’d been, but far too big for his face. A shark’s eyes, dark and dead.

Walking back out, Kent shot him a glare back, returned the cold in full force. He had ice in his veins, too, and fire in his blood.

A secret for a secret.

-/ \\-

All-Stars was a dream come true, an untrustworthy TV in an ice rink with battered, too-big equipment, and the even crappier one they had at home. Something he’d do, somewhere he’d go, bigger and stronger and with a full beard and pretty girlfriend in the stands.

The snow crunched beneath Kent’s boot, and for a long moment, before Molyneux’s hand came down on his shoulder, he tried to remember how long it had been since he’d last stepped on snow.

“You didn’t have to come with me, y’know.”

“I know.” Molyneux smiled, kept his hand where it was. “But I have business here, too.”

“Trynna find a couple more fuckers you can keep out of a hospital?”

“You really have to get over that one day. You’re in the NHL now, aren’t you?”

“So I should be grateful?”

Molyneux shrugged. “Your words, not mine. And I’m talking to GM’s, not players. In case you jump ship in June. Speaking of, have you made any decisions yet?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. I’m gonna go talk to Clint over there, can you get to the hotel on your own?”

“I’m not eighteen anymore.”

Molyneux smiled, slapped his back. “I know.”

Perhaps he could get a new agent, too, when he found a new team. When he finally made some kind of decision.

Four months.

The snow crunched beneath Kent’s boots, and he pulled his cap further down his head, kept his eyes on the pavement as he hailed a cab. Didn’t say a word until he arrived at the hotel, nodded at a Kings goalie and a Hurricanes D-man. A Pens D-man with a soft face who took a step forward, but not a second as Kent looked away, smiled at the receptionist, went to his room. Locked the door.

Tried to remember how long it had been since he’d last had a hotel room all to himself.

The snow was still there in the morning, dirty and loud, trailed all the way into the dressing rooms.

New guys, old faces. Kent smirked, placed his bag in an empty stall. Horowitz. Left winger, no goals against the Aces as of yet. On the ice at all, Kent couldn’t remember.

They went to the trouble of making new jerseys, but didn’t cover up the name tags.

Something tugged at the corner of Kent’s mouth, something that was almost a smile as he opened the bag, pulled out the white jersey. Parson on the back, NHL on the chest. Red and white.

Once, in their second year or so, Jack had admitted how he hated coming onto a new team. The jerseys were different. All wrong. And Kent had laughed, ignored the clench in his stomach at the flush in Jack’s cheeks, asked if his slaving to routine ran that deep. If that was why he always wore the same clothes outside of practices. Jack had looked away, mumbled something about betraying his old team, and Kent had laughed again, told him he’d never survive in the NHL like that. Good thing they were both so fucking good, else they’d be traded like Pokémon cards and Jack would have one hell of a problem. And Jack had smiled, thin-lipped and shy. Real.

Kent had loved that smile.

For a moment, he wondered whether Jack had watched the fantasy draft. Imagined himself there. If he even cared anymore.

Perhaps he’d imagined himself at the real draft, too. If he’d ever watched it.

Probably hadn’t.

“Parson?”

Kent looked up. “Sorry?”

Hansen – Washington Capitols, captain, his captain now – smiled, a little too worried, and Kent smiled back, full attention. “I was just asking if you were good. You know, not being captain here. If we’re gonna have a problem, or - “

“I’ll behave. No problems from me.”

“Okay.” Hansen nodded, slid on his jersey. “Okay, good. Do your best, then.”

“I always do.”

Hansen grinned. “Yeah, I know. Too bad for everyone else.”

And Kent grinned back, pulled on his helmet. Pushed the cowlick inside.

“Another thing - “ Hansen glanced around, lowered his voice. “There are no other, øh, issues I need to know about?”

On his gloves, Kent’s hands stilled, a second too long. “It’s two days. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. ‘xcept Meyers and Park, y’might wanna do something there.”

Bruin and Sabre, D-men, maybe two insults from chirping, three from yelling, five from a full-on fist-fight, and Hansen cursed under his breath. Kent didn’t wait until the fight had broken before grabbing his stick, heading towards the rink. There’d be vultures this early. Still better.

“Parson!”

Kent upped his speed, smiled at the man approaching. “How’s it going? Got a good seat?”

“Yes, thank you – are you nervous for the challenges? Or the game? Do you think team Hansen’s got what it takes to - “

“Not nervous at all. We’re all gonna bring our A-game tonight, play some good fucking hockey, you know. Shit, sorry I said fuck, you cut that out, yeah? Enjoy the events.”

A grin, a smirk, and with a couple of steps back and a nod from a rink worker, Kent took off running, jumped onto the ice, raised his stick high. The noise was overwhelming, even more so as he did a victory lap on the ice, skated a little too close to a Ranger in a black jersey.

”Fucking show-off.”

”They’re here for something and that something’s us putting on a fucking show. Better step up, pretty boy.”

“I punch you in face, is good show.”

Kent grinned, and the Ranger grinned back, bumped his fist. A good picture.

Fun and games.

They lost fastest skater. A surprise to the commentators, the journalists, the fucking puck bunnies, but real fucking hard not to when one skater was six fucking seconds slower than another, and the rest weren’t even trying.

Breakaway challenge was a loss as well, but with a freak dressed like Batman screaming like a bat all the way to the goal, Kent couldn’t blame the goalie.

Accuracy shooting, at least, even if Kent bombed his own goals. There was no way he wasn’t passing the puck to wherever the fuck the morons on his team needed it to be to score.

He was off the ice before anyone could as much as whisper one-timer.

Before the challenge relay was fully over, Kent found himself in a small heap on the ice along with one of his own teammates, two from team Mueller, all laughing their asses off. Half a glove was covering Kent’s mouth, his helmet a few feet away, another guy’s mouthguard somehow down his jersey, but it didn’t matter. He pulled himself out of the pile with difficulty, danced around the ice for almost a minute before it fell out and landed on the ice with a sound lost in the ruckus.

In the end, he had to ask the bench who won.

The coach smiled. ”We did, son.”

And Kent grinned back, real for the first time in what felt like weeks. Months. ”Good for us.”

The game itself began with a hoot from the stands even the corner of the ref’s mouth ticked up at and ended with a dog pile, for once with Kent on the edge instead of the middle, the crowd roaring with laughter rather than blood.

In between, Kent shot a puck off a Flames’ stick, passed to a Bruin who scored on an Islander. Leapt to the side to avoid a check from a Shark who shot him a nasty grin before zeroing in on the goalie, a King Kent’s age, and sending the puck straight to his glove. A noise went through the crowd, booing or cheering, there was no way of telling, possibly not even by themselves, and Kent moved to the face-off circle, grinned at a Coyote before passing the puck on to another Bruin. Set off after the Penguin who snatched it up before the Bruin could, the soft-faced man who’d sent him a small smile between periods and was slammed into the boards by a Predator. Another feint, two passes, three near-hits, and Kent moved out of the way just before hitting the goalie, shot in the puck just below his stick while he instinctively stepped back.

A horn blared, and Kent raised his fist, took half a lap, felt the ice in his veins sing.

“You coming out with us after this?” the Predator – Dockerville – asked him afterwards, half undressed and with a bead of water sliding down his chest to rest on the edge of his underwear.

“Partying?” Kent asked, pulled on a shirt. “Really?”

“Nah, just catching a couple of drinks. A couple ladies, maybe, for us single guys.”

Kent thought it over, ready to decline, ready for another night in his bed with the tape of the Canadiens’ game a couple of days before. Another night trying and failing not to think of Jack.

“Come on, man, Carly says you need it.”

Right. Former teammate. “Carly doesn’t know shit. Just likes to pretend he does.”

“Fuck, I’mma tell him you said that. What’s your type, then? Who do we need to look out for?”

“I don’t need help getting laid.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“Blondes or brunettes?” Hansen smiled, a laugh hidden just beneath, and Kent shrugged, tried not to roll his eyes. “Brunettes, I bet.”

Kept his body relaxed.

“Blue eyes for sure” the goalie joined in – McKinnon, Sharks, five shut-outs that season. “Bet he’s an ass-man, too.”

“Fuck off.” Too harsh, too quick. Unexpected. Shouldn’t have been.

”What, can’t take a joke?”

“’course I can. Just used to better ones.”

And he was. A year and a half, a punch to a face that wasn’t his, the way he couldn’t grow a beard, the way he slipped back into a Brooklyn accent as soon as they touched down in JFK International.

Standing from the bench, Kent closed the zip of his bag over the red and white NHL-logo, gave the team a quick salute. “And I do prefer brunettes. So no need to worry ‘bout your wife.”

“She wouldn’t go for someone as ugly as you.”

“I don’t know, she must be blind as a fucking bat if she’s with you.”

New roars, new laughter, and Kent slipped out beneath it, shook off the déjà vu beneath his skin. Focused on the ice there instead, where it would be for another couple of hours, settled and festered. Still pulling him in as if never letting go, and it wouldn’t. Never had.

And he held on just as tight.

-/ \\-

Kent liked Bastille. Not just because of the name that would’ve made Jack chuckle (he couldn’t think of Jack. He just couldn’t), but because no names were ever exchanged inside the heavy, smoke-filled air. There were only bodies, attractive bodies, writhing and grinding to whatever music the speakers were bursting with. Smoke and fire and sweat. He could lose himself at Bastille, forget whoever the fuck he was supposed to be outside of it.

Like on the ice. And like the ice, the fire was an illusion. He knew that, had known it since he was a child, before the fire came and only ice crept beneath his skin and cleared his head. Real as could be when it cut his face and swallowed up his blood, but an illusion of calm and time non-existent the second a puck dropped. A place untethered to reality. And Kent thrived in it, the kingdom in which he was the only thing real, and real for once. The king of lies.

Perhaps that was why he liked Las Vegas, when he really thought about it. Why it felt like stepping off the ice when he left its borders, out of the frying pan and into the fire as night air hit his skin. A city of pretend, a mirage in the desert where snow never came and ice burned, and, like the ice, nothing more than a fool’s paradise.

Reality always returned when his feet hit solid ground.

“Well, this is unfortunate,” Sonny said, hitched his back further up his shoulder.

Kent glanced at the two beds, separated only by a night stand. Maybe three feet. “You got a problem?”

“Yes.” Sonny huffed out a laugh, dry and humourless. “Yeah, I’ve got a big fucking problem.”

“It’s one night. Don’t be a fucking baby.”

Too quick, too brave, and Sonny’s face hardened. “You’re got some fucking guts, you know that, kid? Lemme spell it out for you, I don’t wanna room with a fucking queer, and I don’t think you wanna room with me, either.”

And finally a threat. As if Kent had never dealt with those before. “I’d rather you didn’t snort coke off the fucking sink, yeah.”

Sonny’s eyes narrowed. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, okay? I’m gonna go to Rezzy’s room, see if his roomie wants to switch. And you better hope he does, ‘cause I don’t trust myself for an entire night with you, you understand that?”

And he did. A cold shiver down his spine, sweat on his brow, a clench in his stomach he had long since learned to ignore.

The door closed a little too hard, and Kent threw his bag on the floor, sat down on one of the beds. Breathed in the silence.

Four more months. If he left, it was only four more months. And if he didn’t - 

A couple of minutes later, Swoops stuck his head in and smiled, and Kent smiled back. His bag hit the other bed, a quick glance at Kent’s but no comment, and Swoops plopped down with it, let out a groan.

“You really need to cut down on the chicks,” Kent said, steady voice, steady hands.

“Never,” Swoops replied. “’s where I get all my energy. Pussy-energy.”

Kent snickered, lifted his bag onto the bed.

“You and Sonny still don’t get along.”

Not a question, and Kent shrugged. “Some people are easier to work with than others.”

“He wasn’t even in the talking of getting the C.”

“I bet he wasn’t.”

Swoops laughed, and Kent let his lip twitch as well, pulled out his toothbrush and headed for the bathroom. Asshole or not, they still had a game to win.

*

The puck dropped with a blow of the ref’s whistle, and Kent’s stick hit the Star’s, somehow sent it to Carly who shouldered a Star out of the way. Setting after him, Kent glanced at the lineman, but nothing was called.

With a flick of the wrist, just ahead, Carly passed the puck to Rezzy, who sent it back. Seconds later, another pass, and Kent pulled to the side, watched the two play each other with Swoops on the other side, Stars turning on their heels every other moment. It wouldn’t be long before they caught up, managed something resembling a strategy, and - 

A whistle blew, a ref pointing at something Kent couldn’t see. No penalty.

A Star grinned at Kent as he skated towards the face-off circle. Kent looked away.

Their sticks hit again, echoed in the rink above hundreds of voices, yelling and cursing, but at last, the puck came free, hit a Star’s stick and was passed on. The new fucker shot forward, well into defensive before the Aces could assemble, glanced back a little too long and ran straight into Scrappy’s chest, fell to his ass in a move that would no doubt make that week’s highlights.

Kent shot forward, but another Star was closer. The puck came to a brief halt at his stick before moving to a teammate’s a few feet to Kent’s left. He surged out, but it sailed past him, disappeared from reach as the other Star took off, two black jerseys hot on his heels. A fast motherfucker, faster than most, slower than Kent, and by centre ice, he stuck out his stick for the other man’s skates, for something that could turn the game around. He hit air, but but the Star slowed down for the briefest of seconds, just time enough for a black jersey – Monster – to catch up with them both and slam against him. They toppled onto the ice in a mess of limbs, the Star’s helmet hitting the edge of the glass loud enough for Kent to wince. He stuck out his stick again, only an inch from the puck when a blur of black hit him from behind and forced him into the glass as well.

“Who’s a baby now?” Sonny hissed into his ear. Kent opened his mouth, but no sound came out, gasped as the pressure was finally lifted and Sonny was running. As if nothing had happened. It took all the power he had to keep himself from falling.

In the middle of the rink, Rezzy was skating further and further away, toppled as a Star ran into him as well and shot the puck off to the side.

A small hiss left Kent’s lips, air or anger, he had no fucking idea, but there were no whistles, and so he inhaled, ignored the burn in the back of his throat and the eyes on the other side of the glass, and pushed himself off.

On just the wrong side of the middle line, Sonny slammed himself against a Star, allowed Carly to grab the puck and set towards the goal. With another deep breath, slightly less painful than the one before, Kent did, too, stayed ahead but just a bit to the right from Carly’s line.

Right after the blue line, a Star snatched up the puck – a good feint, a soft check – and promptly passed to a teammate. Kent slid to a turn, narrowly avoided the waiting Star to pick up the puck and turn again. He could almost feel the man’s breath against his neck.

Almost instantly, another Star appeared. Kent grit his teeth, and, without giving himself too much time to think it through, shot the puck just between the guy’s skates and stick, took a small jump over it, took control of the puck once again as his skates hit the ice. Behind him, there was a shout, the sound of bodies hitting glass, but Kent didn’t look back.

Between the pipes, the goalie had dropped down, arms to the side and knees inches from the ice under the large pads. Their eyes met and stayed together.

Kent raised his stick.

The puck flew through air, about an inch above the ice, and the goalie slid to the side, helmet knocking against the pipes, but the puck stayed out, was shot off by a D-man before Kent could go for the rebound.

A whistle blew.

Kent tasted copper.

Sparing a glance at the yelling by the boards, Kent headed for the bench. ”Pull Manson.”

Burke raised a bushy eyebrow. ”And why should I do that?”

Kent grit his teeth. ”You saw what he did out there.”

“I didn’t.” Burke’s eyes narrowed. “I saw a bad hit and a bad goal. You trynna tell me there was anything else?”

Kent opened his mouth, took in the men staring at them from the bench, closed it again. From centre ice, the ref was calling out.

Burke nodded out at him. ”Better go, captain. Unless _you_ need to be pulled?”

His throat hurt, his lungs even more so, and to add to his frustration, the back of his eyes kept stinging. Without another word, Kent turned on his heel and skated towards the face-off circle, eyes locked on the puck in the ref’s hand.

*

He broke a stick.

He got a hattrick.

His knee fucking hurt.

-/ \\-

“Le numéro t’as - “

Kent ended the call, glared at the March 4th that met him. He was running out of time.

Squeezing his eyes shut until black dots appeared, Kent took a deep breath, scrolled to the top of his contacts. Bob Zimmermann. Hadn’t always been, but … it didn’t matter. He’d changed after 2009 anyway, after everything.

It didn’t matter.

As the first ring echoed out, he stood. By the second, he was pacing. By the third, he was ready to call the whole thing quits and find a bottle of whiskey, or head to the rink, or throw himself from the fucking - 

“T’as téléphoné à - “

Kent ended the call.

He should be making dinner, anyway. Practice had run late, his own fault more than anything, he needed to eat to keep it up. He wasn’t Jack.

Didn’t even make it to the fucking refrigerator.

”Kent Parson,” he breathed, gripped the kitchen counter until his knuckles went white. It had been so long.

”Hello, Kent.”

”Bob.”

It was a gamble, but Kent had been in Vegas for two years. For better or worse, whatever it meant.

”How are you doing?” Bob asked, sounding more like the tired, old man who nearly lost everything than the cool dad he’d been when they’d first met, the one he’d clearly tried so hard to be. Perhaps that man was gone forever, along with the freckled teenager with baby fat still desperately clinging to his cheeks, the one whose heart hadn’t begun to beat again in the ambulance.

”I’m alright. Season stressed, but who isn’t this time of year?”

”I remember that.” Reminiscing. A good sign. ”Never time for anything but practices and games, and all of a sudden it’s playoffs, and your wife gets a new haircut that you don’t notice for two months because you don’t see her.”

He chuckled. A smile found itself tugging on Kent’s jaw, too.

”But you’re probably more stressed than I was, back then. I never made captain my first year. I can’t say I’m surprised, though, you were always so talented. And hard-working.”

”Jack was the hard-working one. I just followed along.”

Had it not been for the continued breathing on the other end, Kent would’ve thought Bob had hung up on him. The fingers in his jeans tightened their hold.

”I know you did.”

Loosened. ”How’s he doing?”

Bob sighed, once again a man too old for his age. ”He’s doing good. Still coaching, still figuring out what’s next. The girls are improving with him. He’s very proud of them.” A well-rehearsed speech, not a word in the wrong order. The hockey player Bob had once been was shining through.

Except that wasn’t the game they were playing. ”Has he mentioned any plans to you?”

Another sharp inhale, another wrong thing to say. As if there were right things.

”A little.”

”What’s he said?”

”Kent, son, are you sure you want to talk about this?”

Son. Like Kent was seventeen years old again.

”Yes.” The counter dug into his back from where he was leaning into it. ”I have to know if I need to talk to specific teams, or if he’s still looking. He’s not picking up when I call.”

”He’s still figuring it out,” Bob repeated, voice too kind not to know more than he let on. ”Kent, I think you should just let things play out. Wait and see what happens.”

Like Kent was an old man telling the doctor the cancer wasn’t going to kill him. That he could fight it. Beat it.

Kent had been fighting for longer than Bob could understand. ”If I don’t know anything, I can’t do shit. The league isn’t gonna forget what happened two years ago, he’ll need support when he signs, and I can help him with that. And I want to, alright? I just wanna help him.”

”I want to help him, too. I’m working hard to help him already, don’t you ever think I’m not.”

”Bob, there’s only so much you can do. You haven’t been in the league for twenty years, and we both know he won’t choose one of your old teams. Even you have to see that’s a bad idea. So unless you wanna _buy_ him a spot in the league - ”

”Kent!”

” - let me do something here! I have a Stanley Cup, I have a Calder, an Art Ross, fuck, I have cap experience, the Aces would be nothing without me! I’ve got so many offers, If I ask for Jack, they’ll sign him. So, please, Bob, just fucking tell me what he’s told you. I can help him more than you can, and if we both just wants what’s best for - “

A click, a long beep.

The call was over, and Kent was left standing against a kitchen counter bruising his back and heavy breaths that weren’t sobs and were never going to be sobs pushing on the inside of his chest.

”Fuck!”

The phone made an unhealthy noise as he slammed it against the counter, but he was beyond caring. He was Kent fucking Parson, he could buy a new fucking phone if he needed to. He could buy two, three, fucking _fifty_.

”Fuck!”

The C had been a record thing, he knew that. Nothing on him, or who he was, or who he could be. His age. The one year left on his contract they could terminate if he fucked up. The Aces were a captain-less team, a hierarchic democracy Kent had been brought to as a sledgehammer, and somehow he was supposed to pick up the pieces, too, build up the tower anew.

He could still leave Vegas. On his own. Wait for Jack wherever he ended up. The first week of March had passed without a trade, but his contract was still up in June, and he hadn’t been lying about the offers. Rangers, Capitols, Bruins, Pens. Even the fucking Maple Leafs. Eight digits, an A waiting, year-round bonuses. Nicer climates, teammates who hadn’t seen him those first few months after the draft.

Teammates repeating the chirps the Aces had gotten over.

A sharp pain shot up from Kent’s knee, settled in his hip until he changed position, picked up a bag of frozen peas. The cold burned, left his skin red and heaving. Healing.

Wherever he went, he’d have to keep lying. There was no place for truth, no space for it. There was still time for him to burn, time and enough timber to burn his career to the fucking ground. With or without Jack. The only question, the only _choice_ he had, was where he wanted to lie. Where he wanted to burn, even if he had to burn alone.

And Las Vegas was already on fire.

He had as much of a right as anyone.

-/ \\-

Kent walked into the bar with three other Aces and his signature trinity, as a teammate in the Q whose name he could no longer recall had once called it. Cap, flannel, and smirk. Costume and lines and audience. Camera, lights, action.

It wasn’t crowded, would be later without doubt, but there was still time. Behind the counter, a woman with a bleached ponytail and a red mouth was smiling, a couple of buttons undone showing enough to attract more than a few stares. Not what he was looking for.

A few tables down, not quite in a corner, close to the bathroom, a group of women laughed amongst one another, too loud, too shrill. They didn’t seem to notice the group of men watching them from a nearby table.

Better not get involved in that, Kent thought to himself as the bartender pushed his drink over the counter. He gave her a smirk and a nod, and she raised her eyebrows, shot him a quick wink before moving on to the next costumer. As he took his first sip, a woman slipped into the seat next to him. Tall and smooth-skinned, purple dress, curly ponytail.

”Vodka martini, please.” Her voice was deeper than he’d expected. For a second, her eyes flicked to him. ”Dry, if you can.”

She was pretty. All long legs and plump lips – dick-sucking lips, Swoops would call them – and an attitude he would love to tear down.

Perfect.

Their eyes met again, and Kent gave her a smirk and a raise of his glass. She quirked an eyebrow, raised her own newly delivered drink. Dry as a bone left in the desert.

”Kent.”

The woman looked down on his offered hand, then up at his eyes.”Louise.”

Her hand was soft, much softer than Kent’s. ”Nice to meetcha, Louise. Now, what brings a pretty gal like you to an establishment like this on a Saturday eve?”

Louise raised an eyebrow again, stared at him with something that was either bewilderment or wonder. Attention, for sure. ”Is that seriously what you’re gonna go with? Also, _gal_?”

Kent shrugged. “Not working?”

She grimaced, patted his hand a couple of times before rising. “Not a chance, kid. Find someone your own age to play with, yeah?”

And gone she was, lavender perfume and long legs, an ass Carly turned to look at before taking her stool and throwing his arm around Kent’s shoulder. “Damn, that was brutal. You need some aloe vera for that?”

Kent ignored him, drank his scotch. Lights, camera, action. “Her loss.”

“Her loss?” Carly cackled. “Nah, man, that was her victory. A hard kill if I’ve ever seen one. KO.”

“Thanks for the salt, needed that.”

“Shit, is that how you flirt? How did I not know that?”

Hook, line and sinker. Kent shrugged. “It works. Not my fault she was a frigid bitch.”

“Nope.” Carly pulled him in, rested his head on Kent’s. Expensive cologne, expensive whiskey. “That was just pathetic. If that’s how you flirt, it’s no fucking wonder you’ve never had a girlfriend.”

Kent pushed him off. “Fuck you, of course I’ve had a fucking girlfriend! I was knee deep in pussy in Rimouski.”

“And how long did they last?”

Kent didn’t answer. Made sure to scowl.

“Rimouski’s a hockey town,” Carly said, almost gentle. “I betcha they were all puck bunnies. But don’tcha worry, I’ll introduce ya to some real ladies some time.”

“I don’t want fucking puck bunnies. I’m not you.”

Carly slapped his back again, hard enough for a bit of scotch to hit the counter. “Keep telling yourself that, man.” Grinning an apology at the bartender, he swaggered off, threw an arm around another unsuspecting Ace. Retold Kent’s misfortune, were the laughter and looks sent his way to be trusted. Would be all around the dressing room come Monday.

Kent ordered another scotch, nodded at a lady across the bar.

Perfect.

*

Estelle laughed, rested her hand on Kent’s arm. Didn’t protest when he leaned in to kiss her, slipped a tongue between her lips. Cocoa butter. That was new.

“My place or yours?” she whispered, and Kent smiled, walked her outside, put an arm around as she shivered, held her in place as she stumbled.

“Shit, you’re drunk.”

She giggled, held on a little tighter. “I’m good if you are.”

He pretended to think it over, rubbed her arm. “Honestly, babe? Not really. I don’t want’cha doing anything you’ll regret in the morning.”

“I won’t, I promise. You’re – you’re Kent Parson, I won’t regret that.” She lowered her voice. “My friends think you’re cute.”

“Tell ‘em you’ve fucked me, then,” he whispered in her ear, ran a finger down her forearm. “Tell ‘em how good I was.”

The cab pulled up, but neither took notice. Estelle shivered, pulled at the hem of her dress. “Can’t you just show me?”

“You can barely stand. I’m not that kinda guy.”

Her lips were cold, goose bumps on her arms and legs, and her words would be dripping with disappointment, so Kent kissed them away, left her with one last peck and a paid ride. Walked the rest of the way home.

*

Kimberly ran a hand through her hair, glanced at he bartender as if he could save her. Kent made sure not to touch her, but bought her another vodka. She didn’t drink it, didn’t even touch it, and Kent nearly took a punch to the face when her boyfriend showed up. Not his fault the bitch was taken, and he really shouldn’t have called her a bitch, but Monster leaned against the counter behind him, and the boyfriend backed off, walked away with his arm around her waist and a glare in Kent’s direction.

Scotch for himself, vodka for Monster. An alibi when his wife asked how he’d gotten that lipstick on his neck.

*

Their usual sports bar was packed, and Kent squeezed himself in between Swoops and Scrappy, accepted a cheeseburger and a wink from the waitress. Eyed her ass on the way out.

“Someone’s loosened up,” Swoops said.

“The jaundiced eye sees all things yellow,” Kent replied.

Two beers down, he pulled the waitress down on his lap as she yelled at a couple of guys watching the Cavaliers game a little too loudly. Voice like a foghorn, and he shut her up with a kiss, slid his hand up her shirt. The slap stung. The laughter didn’t.

*

Chelsea was a mistake, but Lutz slapped his back, and Carly laughed until Kent kicked him out of the cab, paid off the driver not to sell any stories. Wiped the lipstick off his mouth and pinched at the hickey until it was a deep purple no jersey could cover at the presser the next day. Ignored miss Teterya’s eyes on the back of his neck. The way her nails looked like they’d been sharpened.

Couldn’t ignore her anymore when she all but pulled him into her office.

“Can you tell me what this is?”

At least the paparazza had gotten his good side. ”It’s a picture?”

”Why I work with athletes, I ask myself every day,” Marina muttered. ”Now, can you tell me why you were frenching a woman in the middle of the fucking street last night?”

”It was the night before that, actually. Last night I watched Breaking Bad.”

”You’re not helping yourself by trying to be funny, Parson.”

Kent shrugged. ”She was beautiful and fun to talk to. The bar was getting a little rowdy, and we decided to get out of there. Did I break a rule or something?”

“No, but if you knew how many rookies have frenched a woman one day only to have a sex tape leaked the next, you’d go grey as quickly as I have.”

”Your hair’s dark.”

”I dye it.” She sighed, took off her glasses and placed them on the table by her elbow. “Take this as a warning, okay? No more stupid pictures I have to make disappear. You’re lucky I was preparing for way worse when you got drafted, or you’d be in way bigger trouble.”

A shiver went down Kent’s spine. ”Good thing you didn’t need that.”

She hummed, expression unchanged. ”Sure. Now get the fuck out of my office, some of us actually have to work here.”

”Noted. Have a good one, Mary.”

”Don’t fucking call me that.”

”Sorry, miss Teterya.”

The door closed with a slight click behind him, and he was off before cold, clammy feeling at the bottom of his spine could spread. By the time he made the door to the dressing room closed behind him and he nearly doubled over from the hand on his back, it was almost gone.

”Nice fucking _done_ , Parser!” Lutz yelled. ”Didn’t know you had it in you!”

”Oh, I don’t think it was in me,” Kent smirked, dropped his bag on his bench. Lights, camera, action.

”Get it, Parse!” Pops yelled from where he was pulling on underarmour.

”I’m so confused,” Bubbles whispered from his bench.

”It’s like this,” Carly sat down next to him, swung an arm around his neck. ”Parser got his fucking dick wet. _Finally_.”

The frown didn’t budge, but Kent paid him little mind. Rather confused than suspicious. He could deal with confusion.

”You should try it sometime,” he added. ”It’s pretty neat.”

”Buuuurn,” Swoops whispered.

Bubbles hit his arm, hard, tore himself free from Carly’s grip. ”Fuck you, I have a fucking girlfriend.”

”Old pussy, though,” Lutz said. ”You’re fucking upwards, Parse. Or is that all you can get?”

”Hey, old pussy’s great,” Swoops said. ”So much more experience in those.”

”You can _fit_ so much more experience in!” Rezzy laughed.

”What, you tried recently?”

”Yeah, with your mother. And let me tell you, she was - ”

In the midst of the chaos, Kent slipped out of his clothes and into his gear. As he laced up his skates, he caught Bubbles’ eyes, the frown above them. Looked back down.

On his way out, Sonny stepped up, leaned in far enough for Kent to smell his breath. ”Nice work, kid. They actually believed that.”

Kent bit down a response, hit the ice with a set in his jaw and a burn beneath his skin.

Two weeks until play-offs.

If he had a decision to make, it would have to be soon.

-/ \\-

Sarah opened the door with a smile that froze on her face. Her eyes widened, and Kent was about to step back, call the whole thing quits, when her arms came around his neck and pulled him down.

“Heya,” he whispered into her cardigan – still blue, still cheap cotton, now smelling of something that had definitely been inside a baby at some point. Or a toddler.

She’d gotten older. Two years – more than that – and they’d aged her. Her hair was shorter, a proper mom-cut – she looked like a mom. A proper one. Not a little girl playing a role she’d never quite known the lines to.

“You’ve gotten taller.”

Tears, somewhere, not yet on his shirt. And perhaps they wouldn’t be. “You cut your hair.”

Her eyes widened, and she ran a hand through the pixie cut, as if its length surprised her, too. ”Got tired of it long. Kinda inconvenient when you’ve got three babies to take care of.”

Three. A scan he’d only glanced at. ”Ben didn’t help?”

”No, he did. But he had to go to work, too. We – oh, Kent, come on inside, yeah? It’s cold, you’ll catch your - “

“I’m just passing by, we’ve got a game - “

“In D.C., I know.” She smiled, soft and proud and nothing and everything like she’d done when he was little. “I watch your games.”

“You do.”

She nodded, stepped to the side. Glinting eyes and a set to her lip. Peach, now. Used to be pink. Sometimes red.

“I don’t wanna disturb.”

“You’re not. It’s just me home. Please, Kent, you’ve come all this way.”

And he had.

The house hadn’t changed much. Same paint, same furniture, same water damage in an upper corner of the kitchen wall.

“I’ve missed ya, kid.”

New hair, same cardigans, new crow’s feet, old words.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Old lies.

“Do you … “ she trailed off. “I don’t know what to ask. Can you – is there something you want to talk about? Something we need to - “

He shook his head.

She nodded. Folded her arms. Let them fall to her sides again. “Can I ask about what happened at the draft?”

Kent crossed his arms. Refused to clear his throat. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Then why – “

“I should probably get going again, actually.” A coward’s choice, but he’d come, that was all that mattered. “Game’s in four hours. Driving here took longer than I - “

“Do you still place your jersey on top when you pack your bag?”

Rushed, too much and not enough, but Kent still stopped in the doorway.

By the counter, Sarah’s hand was on her hip, a lock of hair escaped onto her forehead. “Do ya?”

He should go. Tie his shoes, shut the door, drive back to the hotel. Grab something to eat, take a nap, get to the arena, grab the jersey from the top of his bag where he’d put it since he was nine, his only superstition. Another truth he’d never shared. Another lie.

“I never understood why ya did it,” Sarah continued, eyes wide and almost confident. Almost. “Then again, I never understood the hockey, either. Lotsa things I never understood.” She smiled, thin but real, nodded to the kitchen table. “Sit your ass down, yeah? You’ve come all this way, let me at least make ya a fried egg sandwich.”

And he did. Listened to the oil sizzling, watched the egg harden, watched her hands work. Fried egg sandwiches, like she used to make for dinner when he had practised that didn’t work with her shifts and they ate as soon as he came home from school.

“You’re not having any?”

She shook her head, placed the plate in front of him, pulled out an opened bag of gummy bears from the back a cupboard and sat down on the chair next to his. “I’ve got my little secret.”

“That’s real fucking unhealthy, Ma.”

With a snort, she bit down on one, bit off the head. Rested her own in her hand. “I’m a fucking nurse, kiddo, I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure ya do,” Kent said. Ate his sandwich. Snatched a green bear from the bag in his Ma’s hand and bit the head off.

It wasn’t home, not anymore. It was something, but it wasn’t home.

*

“Hey, miss Teterya. Yeah, I have a clock. Sorry. Yeah, I’ll keep it short. It’s just … I’m worried about Manson. And I don’t know who to tell. So now I’m telling you, in case it gets out some other way, so you guys’re prepared. Fuck you, I’m hurrying as much as I can! It’s about, this one time, except I think it was more than once - “

-/ \\-

The silence was the first thing that hit Kent as he entered the Aces’ training building. No music, no laughter, no trash talk filling the air. Only when he finally reached the door to the dressing room did the slightest hint of voices make it through.

Fight or flight. A captain couldn’t also be a coward.

With a deep breath, Kent pushed the handle down, heard the voices on the other side quiet as it let out a loud creak. No going back.

There weren’t many guys, far from as many as he’d feared, but the total weight of their gazes on him were almost too much.

”You guys having a convention without me?”

From the edge of the group, Scrappy was staring at him with wide eyes that occasionally slipped to Sonny standing in the very middle of the group. Sonny with a dark look in his eyes and hands that balled into fists. Sonny that shouldn’t be there.

Kent’s stomach fell, but before he could take a step back, Sonny was in his face. There was no hit, not yet, and Kent forced himself to stand still, hoisted his training bag further up his shoulder and straightened his back. Sonny’s sweat was in his nose, rank and disgusting. There was stubble on his face. Blood in his eyes.

”Was it you?”

Kent’s nose twitched. ”Me who what?”

Sonny huffed. ”You know damn fucking well what I mean.”

Eyes were fast on them, quiet and waiting. Fuckers knew, too, then. “I haven’t said shit. You know I haven’t,” he added, for Sonny’ ears only. A glance at the guys behind him.

Sonny shook his head and stepped back, just an inch. ”I can’t fucking believe you. I knew you were a fucking coward, but I didn’t know you were a fucking backstabber, too! And a fucking _queer_.” He grinned, far too wide, turned to the guys behind them. “You heard that? Parser here’s a fucking cocksucker, a cocksucker and a _fucking_ backstabber!”

“Alistair,” Rezzy said, cut himself off. Shook his head, and something that tasted bitterly like hope rose in Kent’s throat. “Come on, man.”

A flicker, a glance at Kent, an attempt at a smile. “I’m not fucking kidding you, I – he was seconds away from sucking this guy’s dick at New Year’s, he had fucking tongue down his throat! I was there!”

A couple of eyes met Kent’s, and he shook his head, arms twitching at his sides as if wanting to wrap around himself. Not quite scared and too much of a man to show it. “Bro, no offence, but you were snorting lines at New Year’s. You could barely stand.”

Let alone remember went unsaid, but Kent saw it in Scrappy’s eyes. Swoops’. Lutz’. Pops’.

Rezzy’s.

Sonny laughed, short and breathy, glanced from one man to another. Back to Kent. “You can’t seriously believe – he’s a fucking faggot! You all know it, we’ve always fucking known that! All that shit with Zimmermann – Carly, he punched you in the face! He was at the fucking Olympics last year with – I saw the pictures on miss Teterya’s desk, he was there with Zimmermann, they were _fucking_! You can’t seriously believe this – this _queer_ over me!”

“That’s enough, Sonny,” Lutz said, barely above a whisper, and Kent could have laughed. Relief or pity, victory or the last remnants of fear, it didn’t matter. Not with the way Sonny’s eyes changed, zeroed in on him, and adrenaline released in Kent’s brain, shot through his body as he took a step backwards, just as Sonny took one forwards. Yelling erupted, but there was no time as Kent was gripped by his shirt, dropped his bag, was forced against the wall so hard it knocked the breath out of him, the stench of sweat and alcohol in his nose and mouth as Sonny pressed him in further, didn’t let go as the other grabbed at him. Pulled. The back of Kent’s head was beginning to ache, his neck with the strain of keeping it from hitting the wall too hard.

“Fucking hell, Sonny, you can’t fucking - “

“ - let go of him, it’s no use - “

“ - call the fucking police, if anyone comes in here - “

“ - fucking _let go_!”

Kent fell to the floor in a heap, gasped, moved his hand to where Sonny’s had just been. A hand came down on his shoulder, asked if he was alright, and he nodded, came to his feet.

”The fuck was that?”

Sonny grimaced, pushed against the men holding him back, glared at Kent with an intensity he’d only ever seen on the ice. Red. And perhaps the coke really was a problem, a ticking bomb in the dressing room being diffused against its will. A shiver ran down Kent’s spine.

”What the fuck was that - that was fucking revenge, you motherfucking _cocksucker_! You’ve got no fucking heart, do you? After everything that happened with Zimmermann, shouldn’t you – shouldn’t you know?”

The ground underneath Kent’s feet disappeared. He didn’t fall.

”Or was it your fault he tried to off himself? Did you do this to him, too? Was that how you got him to fuck you, threaten to tell on him, you perverted little - “

“That’s enough, Alistair!”

Sonny’s mouth snapped shut. To his right, paler than Kent had ever seen him, Rezzy stared back, held his gaze without blinking, a look of pure misery on his face. He drew in a breath, said something to Sonny too quiet for Kent to hear. Grabbed his shoulder. ”Go home, get better, come back swinging. Best revenge you can get.”

A sound escaped Sonny, rage or tears, defeat or pain. Guttural and primal, and Kent’s stomach fell with it as he rose to full height, met Sonny’s grimace head-on. No tears, no fear. No remorse.

Slumping back against the guys holding him, Sonny grinned. ”Good luck with your new captain – you’re gonna fucking need it.” He nodded at Kent, eyes clear and bright in the artificial lights. ”That’s the kind of man who’d stuff pills down his best friend’s throat.”

“Come on, man, let’s getcha outta here,” Kent heard Carly mutter, and they did, one step at a time while Kent took one back, Scrappy warm at his side, Sonny never sparing him a glance. The doors shut behind them, and someone let out a breath.

“Jesus fucking Christ, what a fucking shit show,” Swoops said. “Here I thought I’d gotten away from drama when I quit figure skating.”

”Shut the fuck up, Troy, this ain’t funny,” Rezzy said.

“No fucking joke,” Pops growled, and Swoops looked appropriately bashful. Slunk back to his stall.

“We should all get changed,” Kent said, a little too soft, a little too loud. “Before Burke gets here. Get ready for the game. Win it for Sonny.”

For a long second, it looked like he might have to defend himself after all, but it was followed by a couple of nods, a couple of glares. A victory, perhaps. He picked up his bag and went to his stall, glanced at Rezzy staring at the bench in front of him like Kent had done for six years. Same anger.

“I’m sorry, I - “

Rezzy shook his head. “It was getting out of control.”

Kent nodded. “It’s difficult to do something when it’s a friend. But he has a problem, he needs help. I couldn’t watch him - “ his voice broke. He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t watch him kill himself with that shit.”

Something soft flashed across Rezzy’s face, understanding or empathy, and he brought his hand to Kent’s shoulder, shook it lightly. Opened his mouth and closed it again, nodded, pulled his pants down. Kept his eyes on the bench.

And Kent did, too.

-/ \\-

11.59 PM. From ‘Ma’

_u fought well tonite_

_im proud of u_

12.53 PM. To ‘Ma’

_thanks_

_fuckers were just better_

1.04 AM. From ‘Ma’

_no they were shit u were just unlucky_

_kick their butts next year eh_

1.05 PM. To ‘Ma’

_we will_

1.17 PM. To ‘Ma’

_it fuckng sucks being out this early_

1.18 PM. From ‘Ma’

_i know_

_what can i do?_

1.21 PM. To ‘Ma’

_nothing_

_just need to sleep it off_

1.22 PM. From ‘Ma’

_call me if u need to_

1.22 PM. To ‘Ma’

_i will_

*

”Was the Aces’ win last year just a lucky fluke?” the man named Barry asked, face bright, eyes just a tad too wide.

The man named Leonard didn’t laugh. ”I’m afraid there’s just no way to tell, Barry. On one hand, they had that element of surprise last year, and perhaps that did take them further than I thought. On the other, getting used to a new captain, a new way of building the team – being a new team in general, figuring out how to be one – that can take time. There will have been a lot of changes, a lot of things that worked last year that just didn’t this year.”

”Are you talking about Alistair Manson?”

“Him as well, yes. Making a veteran player – if you can call him that, on a team as new as the Aces – making him a free agent just before playoffs … I have no doubt there’s things that went down that we’ll never know about, a lot of drama, and I believe their playoffs run suffered under that. Parson’s injury, too, a new captain out for so long, their top-scorer, it hurts a team. And it hurts the play.”

“So what are your predictions for next year?”

“That’s difficult to say, Barry. Every time I’ve tried to predict anything with the Aces, I’ve ended up wrong, so at this point, I think I’m just going to wait and see.”

They both laughed. Kent turned off the television. Outside, the Vegas lights were glinting, pink and green and red and blue, burned his eyes against the night sky. Burned the city to the ground and raised it from the ashes as the sun lifted its head from behind the horizon and gazed down with pride and golden dignity above the chaos reigning below. Golden. Black and white and gold, cold within unbearable heat.

Worse places to live. Better places to die.

They’d have to drag him out kicking and screaming.


	6. 2011/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which no one tells the truth until they do, the Aces continue figuring out who they're going to be, and Kent gets a girlfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be known that I hate exams.
> 
> At least it's summer now.
> 
> Warnings: more sex (which is going to be the case in every chapter from here on out (I think)), an awful lot of fighting, heterosexual activity, and another unfortunately quite common hockey-related injury.
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by last-minute editing, my gay ass re-reading 'Proforma' by Sanne Søndergaard, 'College Boy' by Indochine, and 'Rocket Man' by Elton John.

“Le numéro t’as appelé est n’employé - “

*

_Alistair Manson speaks out about former captain: “The decline of the NHL”_

_Beach romance! Edmonton Oilers’ John O’Malley and new babe_

_Ace in the closet? Kent ‘Parse’ Parson in the dressing room_

_NWHL beauty first female assistant GM in NHL history_

_Jack Zimmermann to begin freshman year at Samwell University_

*

June 23rd 6.49 PM. From ‘Ma’

_i found 1 of ur shrts in the laundry do u want me to mail it?_

June 23rd 7.23 PM. To ‘Ma’

_ill pick it up whn we play caps next time_

June 23rd 7.29 PM. From ‘Ma’

_ok <3_

July 4th 8.03 AM. From ‘Ma’

_happy birthday kent <3_

July 4th 8.06 AM. To ‘Ma’

_thanks_

July 4th 7.27 PM. From ‘Mary’

_Don’t let me down._

*

”Yo, Parser!”

Kent looked up from his phone, placed it in his back pocket. ”What’s up, man?”

The arm that came around his shoulders was heavy, beyond tipsy already. ”You should throw parties more often, dude. Didn’t know you had it in ya.”

”It’s been, like, two hours, Carly, let’s get this one over first, eh?”

Eh.

Carly laughed and slapped his back, nearly sent the contents of Kent’s cup down the front of his shirt. ”Fuckin’ Canada, man, it’s been two fucking years!”

“Learned to drink in Canada. Still comes back sometimes.”

”Well, shit, bro, me, too.”

“You’re Canadian, Carly.”

“Oh, Canada, our home and native - “

“Shut it, it’s the fucking Fourth!”

Another cackle rocked both of their bodies. “Shut it yourself, Greenberg!”

A late trade, two rookies to Chicago. Left winger, steady and reliable. Twenty points the season before to Kent’s eighty-nine. ”Shit, it’s no wonder you guys’re winning so much, the women here’re fucking ugly.”

“You’re fitting right in, then,” Carly said.

”Nah, man, come on, everyone here looks like a fucking hooker.”

“That’s no way of talking ‘bout your new teammates’ WAGs,” Kent said.

“I wasn’t talking ‘bout the WAGs, I was talking ‘bout the fucking escorts you’ve invited. Or strippers, or whatever.”

“Everyone here’s with one of the boys, so careful who you insult, yeah?”

All but one. Long dark hair, pale yellow sundress with purple flowers, laughter in her eyes. Alone, for some reason, not quite in a corner, close enough to look slightly out of place. And if Kent was right, she was.

“Shit, I thought they were all your girls.”

Carly cackled. “’cause they all look like hookers?”

Kent huffed. ”Fuck you, they look nice.”

”Nice and hooker-y aren’t exclusionary.”

“Big word. And I date normal-looking women, too, y’know.”

”Like who?”

”I dunno, the ones the paps don’t bother shooting.” He looked around, nodded towards the woman. “Like her, she doesn’t look like a hooker. Still hot.”

”Her ears’re kinda weird,” Carly said.

”Bro, have you seen Obama? Some people just look like that,” Greenberg said. “Look at her legs, though, that’s not fucking everyone. Flexible as fuck, I’ll bet.”

”Figure skater,” Carly said with another sip.

”You think so?”

”Absolutely. I dated one a few years back. Legs like that.”

”She anyone’s girlfriend?”

”Don’t think so, haven’t seen ’er before. Someone’s sister, perhaps.”

”She’s Asian. We got an Asian guy on the team?”

”She could be adopted.”

“Don’t think she’s anyone’s sister,” Kent said. “I’mma go ask her.”

Carly snorted, possibly said something, but Kent was already heading over. Eyes on his back, a name in his inbox two days after signing the new contract.

Five years, eight million, loyalty only goals could buy.

She was talking to someone, a WAG, Bubbles’ girlfriend, nodded along and occasionally brought the cup to her mouth with tentative movements, as if the taste might alarm her. Suddenly, as if sensing his approach, she looked up and smiled, raised her cup in greeting. It was an odd smile, still only her eyes, a slight curve to her lip.

”Kent Parson.”

”Chiyo Sha. I take it you’re the host?”

_Be nice to her, and she’ll be nice to you. Everybody wins._

“I am. Enjoying the party?”

She mulled it over. “I am. Happy birthday. Was it twenty-one?”

He nodded. ”Finally old enough to drink.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You were not before?”

”Not officially. American laws, y’know. So - “ he lowered his voice. “Not to be rude, but how do you know miss Teterya?”

The smile returned. “That’s not my story to tell. Nor is yours.”

“You’re not an escort, right?”

She laughed, short and high-pitched, hid it behind a delicate hand. A practised movement, years and years of practice. “Almost. I am a ballerina.”

“And what’s a ballerina doing in Las Vegas?”

She shrugged. “Meeting nice young men. Enjoying the sunshine.”

“Bad timing then. Rain season’s coming soon.”

She laughed again, shifted her body a little closer to his. “I will have to stick to nice young men, then.”

No longer a whisper, a lock of hair pushed behind an ear, the occasional glance around. Unnoticeable. If you didn’t know what to look for.

And he leaned in as well. “Ballet’s really fucking tough, isn’t it?”

”I have not worn open shoes since I was seven.”

”Me, neither.”

”Figure skaters must have it worse, I imagine.”

”Probably.”

”I dated a figure skater once,” she continued, smile playing on her lips again, like laughter waiting to spill. Charming, absolutely. As real as his own. ”No toe nails entire time we were together.”

Kent yucked. ”One of my teammates likes to tell us stuff like that. He skated once, before switching to hockey.”

”Figure skating to hockey?”

”I know. Thank God he got on the right side quickly.”

She laughed, loud and clear, left a hand on Kent’s bicep just long enough. Kept her eyes on him as he went on about the time Swoops had done a spin during a practice game, the chirps that followed for weeks, swept in with a story of her time in the UK, then of her apprenticeship under a retired ballerina back in Japan that found Kent laughing until he almost cried. There were eyes on them, not many, enough, and perhaps it could work.

People believed what they wanted to.

And so he kept smiling, stood just close enough, adjusted the strap of her dress when it fell from her shoulder. ”You seriously telling me you did an entire show drunk?”

”I was not sober!” She snickered, hand half over her mouth, abashed. ”And my teacher, neither. You should have seen her afterwards, showing me off to company heads. She was so elegant, like she had not had anything, while I almost twice fell over standing!”

”And they had no idea?”

Chiyo shrugged. ”It was Russian company. Perhaps they were impressed.”

“They might’ve been. We’ve got a couple Russian guys on the team, they certainly respect that shit. Can’t imagine living in Russia, though.”

“It’s very cold,” Chiyo confirmed. “Too cold for me.”

As if to affirm her point, she drew her hands over her bare arms, and Kent wasted no time wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Want me to fetch ya a hoodie?”

Behind her, a couple of guys mimicked vomiting, and Kent made a face at them.

“It’s okay,” she said, shook her head, pushed back the long strands of hair falling in front of her eyes. “I should go home soon anyway.”

Kent checked his watch. New and expensive, his Ferrari. Fucking Scraps. “The fireworks’ll be starting soon. There’s a really nice view from here.”

Gentle fingers grabbed his wrist, cold and soft, and she turned the watch towards her. “I didn’t realise it was this late.”

“You good to get home?”

She nodded, adjusted her hair again. “If you say fireworks are beautiful, I will stay to watch. Perhaps, if I can borrow that hoodie after all?”

Kent smiled, shook off his own flannel and placed it over her shoulders.

“You won’t be cold?”

“It’s not for long. And I’ve got a bit more padding than you do.”

She laughed, hid it under a gently bent hand, lost as the first firework hit the sky, lit it up as brightly as the city below. Light as was the world about to end or begin anew. His arm was still around her shoulders, and she reached up to hold his hand, met his eyes briefly before looking away.

“This was fun,” she told him afterwards, softly but loud enough. “I had fun.”

“Me, too.” There were still eyes on them, fewer than at first but enough. Teammates and WAGs and people he had little idea who were but had still greeted as old friends when the night was young. ”Do ya wanna do it again some time? Perhaps with less people around.”

She smiled, soft and demure, tugged the flannel closer around her. “I would like that.”

Kent reached out and tucked a stray hair behind Chiyo’s ear, let his fingers brush against her jaw.  
”Then it’s a date?”

He was overplaying it, but so was she, followed his fingers with her eyes before looking up to meet his through her eyelashes. ”We will have to find one.”

He smirked. She smiled. The orchestra played its final note, and the curtain fell.

-/ \\-

**Chiyo Sha** (Japanese: 沙チヨ, Hepburn: _Shā Chiyo_ ; Chinese: 沙春桃; pinyin: _Shā Chūntáo_ ; born May 29, 1989[1]) is a Chinese-Japanese ballerina and former principal dancer at the London Royal Ballet.

**Contents** [hide]  
1 Early life  
2 Career  
2.1 Vaganova Academy of Russian Ballet  
2.2 The Royal Ballet  
3 Style  
4 Awards  
5 Personal life  
6 References  
7 External links

Early life [edit]

Chiyo Sha was born in Ibusuki to a Chinese father and Japanese mother[2]. In 1992, she 

Personal life [edit]

Sha is a vegetarian and a practising Catholic[19]. Despite her legal first name being Chuntao, she has been known as Chiyo since early childhood.[20].

In 2009, shortly after starring in the music video of British rapper Ruby Sapphire’s “Over the Moon”[21], the two were pulled over on a London highway for speeding. A drug test showed traces of marijuana in Sapphire’s blood[22], of which she was indicted. Sha came away without criminal charges and has since stated that she “deeply regret[s] getting into the car that night” but that she chooses to “hate the sin, love the sinner”[23].

After the Royal Ballet’s 2011 Spring season, Sha left the company following rumoured disputes with senior choreographer Simon Fellowes[24].

*

She made quite a spectacle, resting her forearms on a park bench, one leg raised in the air, the other firmly planted on the ground. Every other moment, a man would walk past, sometimes alone, sometimes not, and turn his head, but Chiyo paid them no mind.

”Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand, Chiyo gave him a small smile. ”You get used to it. Is that not?”

Kent looked down. The bandage on his knee stood out like a sore thumb under the edge of his shorts. It still hurt some nights. Scared the living shit out of him. ”It’s better than not wearing it.”

She let down her leg and pulled up the hem of her trousers, revealing a small white bandage covering her ankle and extending down into her shoe. ”Injuries suck.”

Kent nodded. “How did it happen?”

”Rookie mistake, bad land after a jump. It will heal soon, I just need to be careful.”

”But you’re good to run?”

”As long as it’s not a marathon. Or a sprint.”

”No promises.”

She snickered, but Kent still started off slow, lasted about half a minute before Chiyo was well ahead of him.

“Do you think there will be cameras here?” she asked as he caught up.

“Dunno. Unless you’re some big thing in ballet.”

”I wouldn’t call myself big.”

”Nah, you’re kinda tiny.”

She punched him in the arm. ”I’m not that small.”

“Maybe not. Do ya want any to be here?”

“They have their use.” She smiled at a dog jogging past. “The stage can be unforgiving. Rinks, too, I assume.”

Kent glanced over at her. Eyes forward, smile in place. “How much has miss Teterya told you?”

“How much has she told you?” At Kent’s silence, her face grew momentarily serious, a far cry from the gentle smiles, gone as soon as it had come. “I am only here until I am healed. We can dance together until then, or we can not.”

“And you need it, too.”

She didn’t answer, didn’t have to, just came to a halt by a tree, bent down and readjusted her bandage. Even that looked elegant, one foot pointed to the side, straight back and gentle curves. The exact opposite of everything hockey stood for, soft and yielding as he leaned down to kiss her. Another practised movement, another act. For both of them, for once.

There were cameras, it turned out. Lucky them.

-/ \\-

”Yo, Parser, didn’t think we’d see you here!”

Kent dumped his bag next to Swoops’. Not the last, far from the first, plenty of time before practice started. Training camps. No rookies yet. ”And why not?”

Carly shrugged. ”Thought you’d be busy with that girl of yours.”

”Never too busy for hockey.”

”Shit, the sex that bad?”

Kent smirked. ”I don’t get paid to fuck, unfortunately. And neither do you, so get your asses off my dick and onto the ice, yeah?”

It was wrong as soon as it left his mouth, a hitch in Monster’s tightening of his shin pads, a glance from Lutz to Bubbles, and Kent pulled off his shirt without letting it show.

”Captain’s speaking,” someone muttered. Rezzy. Kent didn’t look.

There were no comments. No glances his way. Twenty-something guys on the ice fifteen minutes later and Burke barking orders to the best of his ability. A goal just above Pops’ shoulder ten seconds into the first drill.

“I thought you were warmed up,” Kent laughed, even harder above the flood of Russian swears behind him only fully ending at the next save. A draftee, most likely pushed down to Reno by the end of the month. If he didn’t prove himself.

Swoops took the puck as fourth, a waiting grin on his face, and Kent watched as he ran, faster than usual, a new training regiment, shot the puck off six feet from Pops who dove to the side. It bounced off his glove, landed on the ice where Swoops was on it fractions of a second before Pops. A mad scramble, and Pops receded to the net, legs to the side and ready to fall every which way. Swoops hesitated, a second too long, and Pops leapt as the puck left ice again, threw himself down on it before Swoops could try a second rebound.

“You need to be - “

“Faster, I know.” Swoops shook his head. “Motherfucker’s been practising.”

Between the pipes, Pops cut off Rezzy’s attack with a grin. “Sure has.”

Thirty-three and making up for it. Something Monster would need to learn if he didn’t want to get traded. Lutz, too.

D-men, Kent reminded himself as Carly sent in a clean shot and received a nod from Burke that was almost impressed. Not the same as a left-winger under thirty.

The puck came to him again, and he leapt forward as soon as it hit the ice, kept it as close to his skates as possible while staring Pops directly in the eyes. An old trick, a magician’s secret, attention forced off the action. There were no one around to be mindful of, no one to distract the goalie other than himself, and so he continued forward, kept his gaze straight, shifted the puck from left to right and back again, stepped to the side every other moment. No pattern, no rhythm, pure chaos, and Pops should be used to it by now, most goalies should be against the Las Vegas Aces, but it still worked. Had for years.

Pops’ gaze flickered as he got closer, and he stepped forward, ready for a brawl or a rush or trying to block the shot before it could be taken. Kent waited for exactly two seconds, until the doubt in Pops’ eyes became blue, then moved the puck from where it had rested to the other side, back again and shot. A flick of the wrist, a step to the side, and Pops let out another swear.

Kent laughed again, shot the puck towards one of the new rookies, let out the burst bubble inside of him that off-season always brought. Sand and heat, heavy and suffocating, and by the time pre-season came around, entirely replaced by ice, clear and burning crystals lining his capillaries and diffusing into his bloodstream until his entire body was filled with it.

”Motherfucking cowardly _cocksuckers_!” Carly yelled, and Kent followed him running. The puck ran ahead of them at a Flame’s stick, almost caught by Monster but continued forward until Scrappy sent the handler’s ass into the boards. Before either could regain balance, Kent stepped in, snatched up the puck, passed to Carly who passed back a second later. The offence had been well under way, too much red, only dots of black. Not ideal by a long fucking shot, but he’d managed worse.

Making a sharp turn to the side, he nearly fell as a Flame’s stick hit him on the thigh but kept going, forced the stick out of the fucker’s hands and passed to Swoops a second before colliding with Carly. He was pushed off with little mercy, stumbled a foot or two before setting after. Staying too close to each other was dangerous, they both knew it, but the puck was passed ahead of them, twice, all but lost in a sea of red, and there was no time to waste. Rezzy met one of the fuckers against the boards, pushed him in until the puck came loose and shot it back out. Kent stepped to the side, reached forward, swivelled, all but grinned at a Flame’s eyes widening as he skated past. Behind him, someone yelled, but he paid them little mind, just continued forward, eyes on the goalie’s dark green. Quite nice, really.

They hit the ice together, the goal moving behind their shared weight, a horn and a whistle blowing simultaneously and the crowd roaring above it all, chaos and blood and pure adrenaline and Kent laughed, possibly even out loud, pushed himself off the goalie before another fight could break out. The linemen were busy enough further down the ice, and Rezzy was sent directly to the dressing room, but it didn’t matter. The refs scowled over their screens, scowled at each other, scowled at Kent. Two major penalties, one minor, one good goal. When Kent sat down, ignoring the jeers and swears around him, he was still grinning.

2-1

2-2

3-2

Fucking beautiful, if he said so himself. Even if he ended it on the bench with his head thrown back and a piece of cloth getting reddened by the second, hearing rather than seeing the last goal.

If the slight twitch of Burke’s moustache was anything to go by, it had to have been fucking epic.

They left for Philly in high spirits, with a little too much alcohol buzzing in their veins, victory sharper and higher than any drug could ever recreate, no words on the following loss. Or the one after that in Vegas. It was pre-season, nothing mattered. Not until October when everything became too real to bear.

Chiyo didn’t say shit about their losses, just kissed his cheek when he picked her up from her gym, held his hand on the streets of Las Vegas, giggled over a salad at whatever restaurant they ended up at. Sent him texts with hearts in different colours and happy smiles he would end up fined for if he wasn’t careful.

Fined for a relationship. That was new.

“I remember that,” Bubbles said on the plane one day, and Kent pulled out one of his earbuds, waited for more, but nothing came. Instead, Bubbles yawned until his jaw clicked.

“Whoa.”

”Swoops got busy with a puck bunny in our room,” Bubbles moaned. ”Had to crash with Pops.”

Kent grimaced in sympathy.

”Jesus,” Rezzy muttered from the other side of the aisle, threw a balled up piece of paper Swoops’ way. ”Can’t you keep it in your fucking pants for three fucking days?”

Swoops shrugged. ”She was there, she was hot. Gymnast,” he added, eyebrows raised.

”Nice.”

”Like ballerina,” Pops agreed, mimicked a pair of legs spreading in a 180 with his fingers.

”How’s your ballerina?” Carly asked, grin wide, eyes glinting.

And there it was. Time to shine.

Kent shrugged. ”She’s good. Really fucking annoyed with her injury, obviously, but still training as much as she can despite of it.”

”Didn’t fucking mean that and you know it.”

”I’m not telling you about our fucking sex life.”

”So there is one?” Monster asked.

Kent frowned. ”Why wouldn’t there be?”

”She’s Catholic, right? Might be some no-freaking-before-marriage thing there, I don’t know.” He shrugged, glanced at Lutz for briefest of moments. Long enough.

”There isn’t,” Kent said, readjusted his position. Considered running a hand through his hair. Didn’t. ”We’re keeping God out of the bedroom. I’m Catholic, too, remember?”

“I thought you had hockey,” Lutz said.

“You think a Catholic girl’s gonna let me freak her if she knows I’ve fallen from grace?”

A couple of guys laughed, hooted, most didn’t. Earbuds and girlfriends texting. Rezzy looked odd, but Rezzy always looked odd.

”Fucking get it, Parser,” Swoops smirked, extended his fist from the other side of the aisle, and Kent returned the bump, feeling more like he was back in Juniors than he had in a long time. Since he last fucked Jack, probably.

And the victory was gone.

The roadie was four days, Toronto and Boston. 5:2, two more goals, one assist, higher numbers than anyone in the league. A question about Chiyo he answered with a smirk, a scratch to the back of his head, a smile turned back to a smirk. Polite, almost, nothing like the sharp tongues and sharper words of the Q, friendship and drafts and hopes for the future. Fucking vultures. But, like then, like always, Kent joked through it, chirped the other team and focused on their wins, because they were winning, too. Not tearing up the league, not yet, not like they had their second year and a good part of their third, but they would again. Like they had done nothing else, and how they loved to pretend they hadn’t.

As if the Las Vegas Aces were known for being anything other than a joke with too much force behind it.

Or worth anything more than their captain, who was a little too young, and a little too small, and a little bit too much of possibly a cocksucker.

At least no one said it out loud in public anymore.

He sent Chiyo a heart when they touched down in Boston. She sent one back. The fine was twenty dollars, and he accepted it with a smirk and a slap on the back and a fist of anger in the pit of his stomach. As if he had the right to expect anything else.

-/ \\-

The first thing Kent noticed about Samwell University was the shabbiness. Perhaps it was too long in a newly built rink, the good hotels, high-end gyms, perhaps the place really was low-end. Or just plain old. Used. Loved.

The second thing Kent noticed about Samwell University was the lesbian couple sitting on the grass near a red-bricked, white-windowed building. It took him a second to clock them, short hair and loose flannels not unlike his own hiding more sins than the ones on show. On a baby blue blanket, covered in what looked like ducklings for reasons Kent couldn’t care less about, their hands were clasped, thighs pressing together, soft words and softer smiles flowing freely.

Kent tore his eyes away. Most queer-friendly campus in the US his fucking _ass_.

A guy opened the door of one of the nearest buildings, and Kent slipped in after him, pushed down the urge to scrunch his nose. A dormitory. Small rooms, the stench of badly cooked ramen and axe body spray, colourful, handmade name tags on doors that were already beginning to peel off.

“Watch it, bro!”

Kent ducked, narrowly missed a volleyball thrown from one room to the other.

“Sorry!”

With a wave, Kent walked back out. He wouldn’t find Jack by just walking through, no matter how small a place Samwell was. Maybe a dozen buildings spread out in a large field of grass and cobblestones, all looking the same, and he’d be lucky if he didn’t get himself lost in the process. His best bet would be a rink – except it was barely noon, there wouldn’t be practices yet – or an office, a secretary with a list of students enrolled who hadn’t been told off about journalists.

Twenty minutes and two wrong buildings later, a woman smiled, pointed him in the way of the history building, and Kent thanked her.

History. He should’ve known.

It was even smaller than the other buildings, shabby and brown, almost window-less. Perfect for bending over old books about long-dead people and shutting out the real world. Living in the fucking past.

There were only a handful of people around, a couple of girls handing over what was either notes or drugs, a guy in a NOH8 t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pornstache leaning against the wall, another texting just off the main entrance wearing what looked like pyjama bottoms. College students, Kent’s age or younger, people he hadn’t seen in what felt like years.

And wasn’t there to see.

He was crossing the quad when the doors of the main entrance swung open and what looked like half a class stumbled out. Some had books pressed to their chess, some loose buns, a couple had their hair dyed odd colours and piercings and tattoos. The occasional rainbow.

And one guy in a red t-shirt with a flannel over it, loose jeans that hid nothing and everything, hair that was once more shaggy, like it had been when Kent had run his fingers through it and tasted the future on his lips. Something tightened in his chest, hardened ice crystals or a hole that had once been filled, but Kent swallowed it down. Across the quad, Jack pulled the rucksack further up his shoulder, kept his eyes on the ground and a hand on the strap. Unsure, like he always was in a new city, or when meeting new people, or when asked about anything that wasn’t hockey. Or history.

Kent took another step forward, opened his mouth to call out, but Jack’s name fell without a sound as another guy stepped in front of Jack – NOH8, pornstache. No longer waiting for -

“ - you motherfucking beaut!”

For a long second, long enough for Kent’s lungs to burn, short enough for his heart to still, it looked like the guy was going to kiss him. Right there. In the middle of the fucking grounds. And no one would look twice, Kent realised as a punch in the stomach, no one would give a fuck, and perhaps that was why Jack was there.

But they didn’t kiss, even if no one would’ve cared, because Jack wasn’t a fucking idiot, the NHL was still in his future and hockey was still lodged in his chest like a pacemaker. They hugged instead, too long, not long enough given the soft surprise in Jack’s eyes as the guy stepped back. Unwavering. He said something that made the guy laugh, laughed, too, at something said back, and Kent tried to remember when he’d last seen that. Jack laughing.

He turned on his heel before he could, shoved his hands into his pockets and walked past another lesbian couple – or a straight one, or a couple of flaming fags, who even fucking cared at this point – and back to his car. The rented car.

Pornstaches.

The liquor store wasn’t far off – of course it wasn’t, it was a fucking college – and Kent pulled into the parking lot, stayed frozen for exactly ten seconds before pushing his cap further down his eyes and getting out. The whiskey wasn’t cheap, wasn’t expensive, either, and the cashier didn’t spare him a second glance. Pulling out his wallet, Kent’s hand brushed against a small bottle, and he bit his lip, smiled, handed over his ID. Paid. Wished the guy a good day. Threw the lube into the garbage bin on the pavement just outside.

Scrappy’s eyes widened when he walked into their shared hotel room, and Kent gave him a smirk, too. “In case we lose tonight. Or win. Whatever.”

“I thought you didn’t like the partying?”

Kent shrugged. “If ya can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I wanna be a fun captain.”

And he was, if the way Rezzy’s eyes widened was to be trusted, Pops’ grin, Monster’s blinking. How many they ended up in his and Scrappy’s room, he had no idea, couldn’t care less about as the whiskey burned his throat and gave him enough of a buzz to fall asleep some time after 2 AM. Not enough to blabber.

By the time he stepped onto the plane the next day, the car had been returned, the bottle of whiskey thrown into recycling, and if his eyes were a little puffier than usual, no one asked. A grin, a slap on the back, but no questions. There never were, not when he’d been a rookie, either, before he learned how to sleep again rather than pass out, or when Sonny’s hands had shaken on the armrests. No one asked about anything, and he closed his eyes in the window seat, nodded off with blue eyes behind his eyelids and the taste of nostalgia in the back of his throat.

It wouldn’t last. Whatever it was, and it was probably nothing. He knew that. Jack was NHL-bound, couldn’t stay away if he tried, and he wasn’t stupid enough for another risk like that. Even if he stayed all four years – but he wouldn’t, there was no fucking way he’d waste that much fucking time – it couldn’t last. It just couldn’t.

Perhaps nothing could, for men like them.

-/ \\-

Even at night, Las Vegas shone. Neon lights and debauchery and methane gasses. Beautiful the same way a diamond was, everything dead pressed together until it left something sharp and shiny.

Jack was beautiful. Had been, still was. But not like that. A diamond was sturdy and unbreakable. Cold. Jack had never been those things, and Kent had loved him for it.

He didn’t love the man he fucked that night, nor was he beautiful. Plain and stocky, hair somehow blonder than Kent’s, a round face with nothing of note. Cold lips and a warm tongue, a hint of moisture in the moustache Kent couldn’t help but flinch a little at whenever it tickled his nose, his lip, his neck. Nothing like Jack’s stubble in the morning, and not something Kent was ever going to try again. Still, he kissed back, ran his hands down the guy’s neck when he found no hair to grasp at, followed him to the bathroom and let him put his hands on his ass. Slid one of his own down the front of the guy’s pants and swallowed his gasp.

“Condoms.”

With a nod, the guy pulled two out of his jeans, pressed a searing kiss to Kent’s lips and dug his fingers into the v of his hip.

“Keep quiet, yeah?” he whispered, and Kent nodded, bit down a whine as he sank to his knees, another as the condom was rolled on and a warm mouth enveloped him.

The yelp that escaped him as the back of his head hit the stall was harder to bite down, but Kent did, shoved a fist in his mouth and closed his eyes as the guy moved. He could skate through pain, he could fuck through pain, he could do it quietly if he had to. Steady voice, steady hands, no fear, not a sound. Not a fucking sound.

He came with an ache in the back of his head where it pressed against the stall wall, a bruise come morning, and the indentations of his teeth just beneath his knuckles, a drop of blood just beside his thumb. Nothing that mattered as the guy pulled off, pried off the condom and threw it in the trash. He moved up for another kiss that Kent turned his head to, pushed him against the wall and went to his knees instead. If there was hurt in the guy’s eyes, he didn’t see it, didn’t care as he took him in mouth as well and started moving.

The condom tasted like plastic, latex and cheap, rubbed against his lips in a way he never wanted to feel again, but there were fingers in his hair, pushing his cap down on the toilet lid, tugging ever so lightly. Until they weren’t, and Kent’s scalp burned, and his throat ached, and the guy was biting down his own hand, too, eyes screwed shut and breathing far too fast. He came with a stutter of his hips that made Kent gag, but he hid it in continuous movement until the guy gently pushed him off and tugged himself in. He fell back against the wall as Kent stood on shaking legs and aching knees. Aching head. His entire fucking body.

“Shit,” the guy muttered, and Kent shot him a tight-lipped grin, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. One day, he’d need to figure out how to give a blowjob without getting spit everywhere.

“See you around.”

“Can I - “

Kent stopped, hand on the door handle.

“Can I give you my number?”

Wide-eyed and serious. “No. See ya around.”

He walked out without looking back, washed his hands by the sink, ignored the fumbling of belts and doors behind him.

The air was cold on his skin, smoke-free and unchanged from he’d left it, October desert and star-less sky. Because all the stars were on the ground, and Kent was one of them. There was sweat on his skin, a thin sheen that would have frozen in Rimouski but evaporated in Vegas like all other attempts at water.

Perhaps tears would, too, if he ever cried again. Disappear from his face before they reached his chin, torn from his eyes before they could fall. If he ever cried again, and he wouldn’t. There was no reason to, and water was a precious resource in the desert. Wasting it would be sacrilegious.

In the morning, Rezzy took one look at the bruise on his thigh where the guy’s fingers had dug in, the red and purple stains on his neck and whistled, loud and long. A proper cat-call, and Kent smirked, kept his shirt off a little longer than usual. Spent a little longer in the showers afterwards.

As if he had the right, but it was nice. One more thing he didn’t have to worry about.

-/ \\-

Personal life [edit]

Parson was born in Brooklyn in New York City, New York[31]. He began playing hockey at the age of six[32] and showed a notable talent early on. Despite his small stature that became even more prominent in his teenage years, Parson gained national recognition at the age of fourteen for leading the US in points in his age group[33]. A year later, he was featured in a now infamous ESPN article about ice hockey in the new millennium along with Jack Zimmermann[34], whom he became close friends with during their time on the Rimouski Océanics[35].

Parson was raised Catholic[36].

In July 2011, he met ballerina Chiyo Sha, and the two became a couple[37].

-/ \\-

“Here ya go.”

Chiyo smiled, accepted the hot chocolate, blew softly before taking a sip. Another smile, gentle and feminine, and Kent smiled back, pushed a lock of dark hair behind her ear. Behind them, a few feet off, as if pretending they weren’t there at all, at least two cameras clicked.

On the ice, a child shrieked, and Chiyo smiled again and waved at a little girl skating past in her father’s arms. Her lipstick had started smudging, cracking at the edges and where some had come off on her cup. On Kent’s mouth, too, as he leaned down and kissed her, and she pulled off her glove to wipe it off, smiled in a way that almost made him believe her. Hand back in her glove, he leaned down and kissed her again, slid his arms around her waist and pulled her in. The gloves moved to his chest as she kissed back.

“Don’t forget that I am Catholic,” she whispered against his lips, left him with one last peck and a light pinch to the skin between his coat and scarf. Still left her arm around his waist and her head resting against his shoulder.

“Does it ever bother you? Lying like this?” he asked quietly, and she shrugged. Waved at another kid with a smile that didn’t waver for a single moment.

“It’s 70 degrees outside, and we are wearing winter coats.”

Kent looked back out on the ice, the men swirling past with kids in hand, women on their arms, cameras filming it all. Four hours cut down to maybe ten minutes. “I guess we are.”

She smiled again, thinner this time, simultaneously more and less real. Sipped her hot chocolate.

“Parse, miss Sha, how are you enjoying the family skate?”

Miss Sha. Like she was something refined and precious. And perhaps she was, as she looked up at him with a bright smile and laughter in her eyes. “It’s fun. Very cold, but fun.”

Good at playing the game, at least, and Kent was, too. He snickered, rubbed her upper arm. “Good thing you’ve got me to bring you hot chocolate.”

She hummed, sipped some more. “All you need boyfriend for.”

The camera crew laughed, and so did Kent, knocked into her gently. “I’ve been teaching her how to chirp. I think I might’ve created a monster.”

“Your cross to bear.”

“And I bear it gladly,” Kent replied, pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Behind the crew, Marina Teterya raised an eyebrow. Impressed or nauseated, Kent had no idea. “Why don’t you two head out on the ice, too?”

“Oh.” Chiyo laughed, waved a hand in front of her face. “I don’t know how to skate. And with my injury, I don’t want to make it worse - “

“You’ve never tried?” Marina asked, and she shook her head. Bashful and demure, perfect little princess.

“I’ll teach ya,” Kent said. “Come on, drink up, I’ll fetchya some skates. Size 5, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know - “ Chiyo said, but he shut her up with a kiss, glanced at Marina briefly before heading off. She nodded back.

Shit he was supposed to know.

With a glare picked up by maybe one camera Marina would cut out, Chiyo tied up her skates and stumbled onto the ice, fingers digging into Kent’s forearms. “If you let me fall … “

“I won’t, I promise. Come on, smile for the cameras.”

And she did, thin and sarcastic, shrieked as Swoops skated past a little too close and wrapped her arms around Kent’s waist.

It was a good picture. Front page and everything.

It was a good picture when she left, too, although it was never shown on the Aces’ website. A couple of tabloids, absolutely, the ballerina and the hockey player, a lingering kiss in a bustling airport. Chiyo with a bag at her feet and Kent with a bruise on his hip she rested her hand on like she knew it was there. As if she’d ever seen him without clothes.

“Good luck in New York,” he whispered.

“You, too,” she whispered back. “Come visit me.”

“Miss Teterya would like that.”

Chiyo smiled, a tinge of melancholy beneath it so real it caught him off-guard. “Marina would like many things. We cannot all have what we want.”

And if something slid into place, then, something blurry and nameless, Kent kept it to himself, pressed it onto her lips and against what she pressed back. Whatever truth or lie it was. What the difference even was anymore.

She tasted like skin. And just the tiniest bit of salt. Smelled of roses when he hugged her close, spread his hand on the ribs beneath her blouse, held her as if he couldn’t let go.

There were no ribs when he hugged his mother a couple of days later, not anymore, but the roses were there, a darker pink. He didn’t hide his face in her neck, not like he’d done with Chiyo or when he was younger, but still accepted the kiss to his cheek. The feather-light lipstick that had once been pink and once been red and almost was today.

“Congrats on the point streak.”

“It’s seventeen games, Ma, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Sarah Parson-Miller snorted, gave him a last squeeze before kicking her boots to the side and marching into the kitchen, giving her husband a quick peck on his way out. Ruffled the hair of the kid in his arms that Kent waved at. Put on the kettle while he pulled out mugs from the cupboard.

“How’s captaining?”

“Better. How’s nursing?”

“Old men smoking in the hallways and doctors thinking they’re high shit ‘cause they’ve got a million degrees and rich daddies.”

Kent blinked. Handed his Ma the teabags. “Is Ben’s case closed? The one in Virginia?”

“Yeah, he’s home for good now. No more long trips for a while now, hopefully. I’ve no idea how you do it all year ‘round.”

“You get used to it. Kinda nice seeing new places, too.”

Sarah hummed. “And you’re taking care of yourself?”

“Ma, I’m twenty-one, I know how to keep my bedtimes.”

She snorted, opened her mouth to give back something that might be a chirp, but a kid shrieked in the living room before she could, turned her expression instantly worried. Relaxed a second later as no crying followed.

“Terrible twos?”

She huffed. “You have no idea.”

Kent accepted the mug held out. “Are they worse than I was?”

“Combined, sure. Separately? Not a chance. You had so much energy, it was like trynna make lightning stand still.”

“And Miles isn’t helping.”

“He’s four, if anything he’s making it worse. He picks up Lucas, and Elizabeth’s on him before Ben or I can do anything.”

“Shit, a toddler fight.”

She sighed. “Sounds way more fun than it is, lemme tellya. Gimme a hockey team any day.”

Kent barked out a laugh. “I’d pick the toddlers.”

“Greener grasses.”

“I suppose. Fun, though?”

Sarah smiled, scrunched up new crow’s feet and the beginning of laughter lines. “Tied with you, most fun I’ve ever had. What about the NHL?”

“Most fun I’ve ever had.” Not even a lie for once. Perhaps they really were done with that.

“Better than the Q?”

Or maybe not. “For sure. The tempo’s much higher, and there’s so much more talent on the ice – evolved, too, not just raw. It’s amazing. And the pay’s pretty good, too.”

“Oh, I bet.” She took a sip of tea. “And the women.”

Subtle. Attempted to, at least.

“It’s fake. We’re helping each other out.”

Sarah nodded. Turned the mug in her hands. “Are we ever gonna talk about - “

“No.”

“Look, I’m sorry ‘bout how I reacted when you told me, I was just so surprised - “

“Ma, I really don’t wanna talk about that. It’s fine.”

She opened her mouth, but another shriek interrupted whatever shit she was going to spew. A second later, the crying started, and she let out a sigh, stared wistfully at her tea before getting up. Gave Kent a quick side-hug before jogging into the living room.

Half a mug later, Miles walked into the kitchen with a scowl, and Kent ruffled his hair. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Nothing.”

The scowl turned into a frown, filled his entire face. “You’re weird.”

Kent snickered, hid it in the last of his tea. “You can say that again.”

“Okay. You’re weird.”

The frown made way for a shriek as Kent gently kicked him, dodged the tiny fists that hardly hurt the few times they hit. In the end, he had him picked up, forced his chubby arms against his torso, and Miles was breathless with laughter. “You gonna behave?” He shook his head, and Kent let him go anyway, ruffled his hair. “Wanna go see if there’s more apples left while Ma deals with Luke and Beth?”

Miles thought it over, then nodded. “Okay.”

-/ \\-

Carly snickered. Kent glanced over, kept his hands folded behind his back. Tried not to glare.

Carly snickered again.

“Bro,” someone whispered, someone being Swoops. Next to him, Bubbles hid something in a cough that was probably a laugh, and Swoops elbowed him. Carly snickered again.

“Come on, man,” Lutz whispered between forced thinned lips, the edges turning up. Laughter in his eyes.

“Have some respect,” Greenberg added, firmly not looking at a very concentrated Pops next to him. If Pops broke, it would all be over.

On the podium, the song came to an end, and the Canadian singer moved a lock of hair behind her ear, the same serious expression on her face as had been for the past two minutes. Oh Canada, Kent’s fucking ass. How they were going to get through the Star-Spangled Banner, he had no idea.

But they did. Carly bit his lip until it looked like tears were seconds from escaping his eyes, Pops looked a million miles away, Swoops scowled, and no one looked at Scraps mouthing along to the words. Just in case.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Carly said as soon as the last tone had rung out.

“There was nothing holy about that,” Kent muttered, and Bubbles doubled over in a coughing fit, worsened by Swoops’ hand coming down on his back, far too hard to be anything but revenge.

“Славься, Отечество наше свободное,” Pops hummed, and Monster let out a bellowing laugh. A few feet off, the closest audience members frowned, looked their way, and Kent cleared his throat.

“Come on, boys, let’s go score some fucking goals for some sick fucking children, eh?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to score for a fucking _Honda_?”

“You never fucking score, Carly, stop complaining and get onto the fucking ice.”

With a laugh, a heavily padded arm was thrown over Kent’s shoulders and pulled him in. Had there been no cameras on them, a noogie would’ve followed, but not this time. Instead, they walked towards the ice, Carly’s arm still around his shoulders. A far cry from two years ago. Before the summer. Chiyo freezing her ass off in the WAG section next to a Ranger’s girlfriend.

He and Jack had never done that. Would never have been able to get away with it once the vultures had started tasting - 

Snow, thick and soft, and it was going to be a problem if it kept falling like that. It had been years since he’d last played outside, the lighting was going to be an issue, too, if they weren’t careful. The sun was going down, it would be unnoticeable while they played, but every period shift would be a shock they had to adjust to. At least the Rangers had to deal with it, too. Unless they’d practised outside in preparation. Probably hadn’t.

Kent relaxed his jaw. Whoever had come up with the idea of the Winter Classic could go fuck himself.

The wind, too, he thought as he raised his stick to the crowd, took half a lap around the rink. The wind was going to be a fucking bitch.

And it was, disrupted their balance, stole the puck, blew off Scraps’ helmet in the middle of a turn. The look on his face would make every highlight reel of the week, and Kent could hear Pops’ laughter from centre ice as the whistle blew. There was no roof, and it still seemed to echo, make its way through the crowd and the commentators and New York fucking City enveloping them in its icy embrace.

The puck dropped, and Kent shot to the side, felt himself slipping at every step but ran through it. Snow was still falling, white and thick and soft and staying, but no one paid it any mind, not with the puck in the Rangers’ defensive zone and the goalie dropped down between the pipes. The D-men were moving in, Kent could hear their skates tear through the ice, smell the adrenaline and conviction in the air slicing his throat, but they were too slow. They always were.

A gasp tore through the crowd as the goalie fell to the side, lifted out his arm, only just hit the edge of the puck. It clattered to the ice, loud amidst the chaos, all-encompassing, and Kent threw himself forward, grimaced at the D-man knocking into his shoulder and forced his stick against the puck, but the goalie was faster, hit back, and they both hit the ice. A whistle blew, and the struggle ended. The ref clapped his back as he pulled him up, nodded at the goalie who sent a glare Kent’s way, drilled it into the back of his neck as he skated towards the face-off circle. Gone as the puck dropped again and there were more important things to think about.

The Ranger got it this time, shot to the side where a teammate ran off, passed to another, a third fought by the boards by a set-jawed Lutz. Above, a plane soared, and Kent soared with it, caught the puck as it came free, inches from the Ranger, side-stepped another to pass to Carly. Ran again as he set off, passed centre ice, received. The goalie had dropped down again – clever man – and Kent knew not to rush him. Not this time. Instead, he made a sharp left turn, passed to Swoops who passed back around a Ranger, made another turn. It wouldn’t be long before there would be more, white and red and blue, but black, too, and Kent passed again. Turned his head and immediately recoiled as the sun hit his eyes.

There were sounds around him, not too close, and he kicked in his skate, blinked his eyes to open again and set off before the last spots disappeared. A perfect time for a check, a fucking miracle that none had come. Or just the puck moving to centre ice in a battle between Scraps and Carly and two Rangers, more coming in from the sides, and Kent was right behind them.

Inches from the fight – because it was a fight, or gearing up to be one – the puck came loose, and Kent turned on instinct, ran towards the Ranger capturing it, ran behind him towards the Aces’ goal where Pops had dropped down and Monster was returning. Scraps was too far away, Lutz and Carly, too, but they could do it. Had to.

Didn’t.

The puck left the Rangers’ stick before Monster came into place, before Kent could reach him, and it was Pops’ turn to dive down and shift himself forward. His arm stretched out, further than should be humanly possible, and the puck bounced off his glove, landed on the red line inches from his left skate.

The horn blared, and Pops let out a string of curses underneath it that made a couple of vultures with microphone equipment behind the boards flinch and frantically check their tape. Monster skated into the boards. Didn’t break his stick. This time.

And the puck dropped.

And Kent ran until he was stopped.

“What went wrong in the first period?” the vulture asked, god-awful headphones swelling up his head like a Lovecraftian monstrosity.

“Y’know, the Rangers are a tight team, they’ve really gotten their offensive strategies down, and I think they just managed to catch us a little bit off-guard,” Kent said, tried not to sniff. Fucking cold, fucking _snow_ , fucking – everything. “But we’ll come back next period, really bring our A-game, support each other a little more.”

“Is it a challenge playing outside?”

“Oh, for sure. We don’t exactly get to play outside in Vegas, but we try to ignore it now, play through it, y’know, and I think we’re getting used to it.”

“Good luck next period.”

“You, too.”

You, too, like a fucking moron, and Greenberg slapped his back. Laughed in his face until Burke’s yelling hit them just outside of the dressing room. They locked eyes. Walked in together.

The snow was still falling as they returned to the ice, white flakes dark against the stadium lights, invisible against the darkened sky. Pink, yet dark, burning and fraying at the edges where the sun performed its swan song. The last rays disappeared below the horizon as the puck left Kent’s stick to hit the back of the net behind the Rangers’ goalie. A horn blared, and he lifted his stick, roared with it, with the crowd, with the whole fucking world ending where the stadium lights did not hit. In the darkness, it was easy to believe.

The whole fucking world that didn’t quite shatter as the puck bounced off Pops’ helmet and into the goal behind less than two minutes later. Not shattering, but burning, around them and within, inside veins and arteries and hearts and lungs, every cell in every muscle until blood finally spilled and Scraps was all but pushed into the penalty box. The Ranger was helped off with his glove pressed to his face, blood soaking white fabric, and there was blood in the snow. Red and white that did not become pink. Red and white and blue against Kent’s side, pressing him into the boards, stealing the puck from his stick and passing to a teammate.

There was no time to inhale, and Kent ran after him, eyes on the ‘79’ on his back, Torres, forward, who moved his head out of the way of Carly’s stick – as if they had time for a penalty – and sent the puck off again. Straight left, a hard turn, and Kent followed, a perfect diagonal line ending in horizontal and ice and adrenaline-dulled pain on the side of his face. No sounds for exactly three seconds, four, five, broken by a whistle and skates coming to a halt a couple of feet from him.

“You okay, man?”

Kent blinked, moved to brush the snow off his face, grimaced at the wetness and cold of his glove, the scrape of rough fabric against raw skin and burst blood vessels. “All good. Just a fall.”

“Were you pushed?” a ref asked, and Kent shook his head. Not this time. “Just the snow.”

Next to him, Torres looked relieved, erased it from his face and helped him to his feet.

The puck dropped, and Swoops missed, and they ran, all else forgotten, all pain and kindness and anger and fear. Just them and the puck and each other and a goal that came ever closer. A goalie dropping to his knees, sliding forward, fighting back the tidal wave of red and white and blue and black and gold, some on top of him, some almost below him. A whistle blew, but they were all there, and they looked fucking ridiculous, and Kent allowed himself a second to relax against the boards as they sorted themselves out, kicking, punching, re-fastening helmets.

“After video review, we have a good goal.”

Kent closed his eyes, tasted the copper of his teammate’s disappointment and Pops’ impending silence in the showers that took up more space than his laughter. As if he’d let down Mother Russia herself and not just a hotchpotch of Americans and Canadians and Swedes and Belarusians and Czechs and Slovakians.

4:59.

There were no protests when Burke pulled him, a nod from the bench and a bumped fist from Swoops, a few whispered words on the way to a face-off circle that wouldn’t work, because all strategy went out the fucking window as soon as they set foot on the ice. And reality with it.

How could a hockey team exist in Vegas, someone had asked once, someone who might have been Kent himself, and the answer was that it couldn’t. Nothing could in Vegas. And still they were there, mirages in the desert even when outside of it, chaos within chaos and burning up but never melting together. Unpredictable and dangerous because of it. A boxer with gloves on his feet who knocked out his opponents with a well-placed head-butt. Or got knocked out himself because balancing on gloves was the stupidest fucking idea anyone had ever had.

“Next time,” Swoops said in the dressing room.

“Next time we’re in a Winter Classic or next time we play the Rangers?” Lutz asked, voice as dark as the jersey by his feet, the remnants of what had once been a stick next to it.

“Next time,” Swoops repeated, an edge to his voice, a jersey thrown onto the floor. Too much water in the showers they were all reluctant to enter until Pops calmed down. No one wanted a repeat of the 2011 playoffs. Even if that had been so much Sonny Kent had feared he would choke on it.

“Y’know, she kinda sounded like the first girl I fucked, the Canadian singer.” A couple of heads swivelled his way, confusion, irritation, exasperation, and Kent let his bodyarmour fall to the floor. Ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair until it stuck up like a 90’s boy band. Let them laugh, lead them on. Middle school strategies. “Still not sure if that meant I did it right or wrong.”

“Definitely wrong,” Carly said.

“Nah, could be right,” Monster disagreed. “Woman can fucking scream when you make them nut.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Prolly means you’re not making them nut.”

“Oh, I am. Ask your wife, she’ll tell ya.”

Noise, finally, a crack in the dam, and Kent slid into the showers as far as he could come from Pops, let the water wash away the loss, the sweat, the sting of raw skin on the side of his head. It never became any easier.

Still, it would fade. Always had.

The guy he fucked that night was tall, so tall he had to stand on his toes to kiss him, face all but blurred by the heavy air around them. The view of the moon from the front-to-ceiling windows in the apartment they returned to. Tall and handsome and with an NBA jersey hanging in a glass case above a desk that Kent didn’t ask about. The club had been too expensive for that.

In the morning, he returned to the hotel with a hickey on his neck and even more on his thighs, kissed Chiyo goodbye in the airport and refused to answer any and all questions with a silence that said it all. Let them laugh, lead them on, live in the lie they spun of your gold. Middle school strategies.

-/ \\-

_I meet Kent Parson in a small park tucked into a corner just off the Strip._

_“It’s my favourite spot in Vegas. Nice and quiet, you know. Like the eye of the hurricane,” he tells me with a grin and adjusts his Aces cap. There is still the hint of a bruise on his chin from when a Devil in New Jersey punched him a couple of days ago. “I deserved that one. They may not play very well in Jersey, but they have the fighting down to a science. You have to admire that.”_

_We begin walking, and Parson points out to me the spot where he was asked for his first autograph, the first restaurant he ate in in Las Vegas, a corner just off the Strip where teammate Michael ‘Bubbles’ Crawford once threw up on his shoes. It’s clear that Parson holds a lot of fond memories in Las Vegas, despite only living here for two and a half years. Only last year, rumours were flying that he was going to sign elsewhere once his contract was up, rumours I believed but which now seem almost ridiculous._

_Parson agrees. “I don’t know how they started, either. I’ll be the first to admit that I had a hard time finding my place on the team, but I never considered leaving. That’s not the kind of person I am, someone who just gives up. When I give someone my loyalty, they have it, and the Aces paid me back in full. I have no regrets about five more years.”_

_It’s never easy integrating into a new team, especially moving from one league to another._

_“It isn’t, no. All teams are different, and if you’re used to one role on one team, you might find that on your next team, you can’t be like that. And that’s something you have to get used to. Still, it’s worth it, once you’ve found your place and gotten to know everyone. You meet so many great guys when you play, and it doesn’t matter if you’re in peewee, or Juniors, or the NHL, the kind of community between you, it’s one of a kind. You stick together, and you share something incredibly profound that I’m not sure I can explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it first-hand. It’s amazing.”_

_He smiles, and I’m suddenly reminded that he’s only twenty-one years old. It’s easy to forget sometimes, both in the way he carries himself and when looking at his CV. Youngest American-born NHL captain, Stanley Cup champion in his rookie year, recipient of both a Calder and an Art Ross trophy. Also in his rookie year._

_“I don’t really think about it that much. I’m here to play, you know, and all that other stuff … I’m flattered, of course I am, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of it, but I’m not playing for the fame, or the money, or all that stuff. I just love hockey. And I’m so grateful for the Aces and the fans that allow me to do what I love every single day and give myself 100% to that.”_

_For a moment, I see the six year-old boy he showed me a picture of earlier, grinning in a too-large jersey and with a gap in his teeth. Behind the camera was his mother, Sarah._

_“She signed me up for classes, I think a couple months after I turned six, just around the time I started first grade. My father had just died, and she’d just finished schooling as a nurse and needed somewhere for me to be while she was at work. I was a pretty rowdy child, too, I had so much energy, but hockey really helped with that. I’d found my space.”_

_I ask if it was love at first sight, and Parson laughs._

_“Oh, for sure. First time I got a stick in my hand, I was sold. That was it for me. Perhaps it was because there’d just been so much change in my life, I needed something stable, but I loved it, too. I really did. And I still do.”_

_The dog tags on his chest aren’t visible, but every other moment, I catch a glimpse of the chain. When I ask Parson if I can see it, there is a reluctance in his eyes, and he asks me to not to take any pictures._

_“He gave it to me shortly before he was deployed so I had something to keep him close while he was away. I don’t really remember it, I was so little, but I remember how big it felt – not physically, but, you know, I didn’t understand the gravity and the importance of what he was doing, or where he was doing it, or anything about that, but I knew it was something I had to respect.”_

_Growing up without a father had to be tough._

_“It was, and it wasn’t. My mother did an amazing job, I couldn’t have wanted for anything, and playing as much hockey as I did, I had teammates and coaches and teammates’ fathers, so I never missed having a male parental figure. I miss him, of course, but it is what it is. And I’m proud of what he did, and who he was. I’m proud to be his son.”_

_I want to ask more questions, but from the look on Parson’s face, it’s clear they won’t be appreciated. Instead, I bring the subject back to his mother. Despite playing two and a half seasons, she’s never been seen at an Aces’ game._

_“That doesn’t mean she’s not there. It’s just that she’s a very private person, and giving interviews or stuff like that, it’s not something she’s comfortable with. I think – she was very young when she had me, she was still in high school, and I think there were people that gave her a difficult time about that for a while. So keeping private is something that’s very important to her, and it’s important to me, too. I mean, I’m here to play, and I don’t mind talking about hockey, but sharing my private life … it’s actually something that I have to convince myself to do.”_

_This interview must be a challenge, then._

_“A little, but you’re doing great.” He laughs. “I had to ask Chi (Chiyo Sha, Parson’s girlfriend [ed.]) for advice when I agreed to talk to you. She’s done this kind of stuff more than I have.”_

_Upon mentioning his girlfriend, an ease returns to Parson that I hadn’t noticed was missing._

_“She’s such an amazing person. I’m so lucky to have met her. It was at a party, she was visiting a mutual acquaintance while she was injured, and I could tell there was something about her as soon as I laid eyes on her. We’ve got a good thing going, we really do. It’s not easy, of course, with my career and her career, but that’s one of the downsides of being a professional athlete. It’s a fight, but it’s worth it.”_

_Late last year, Chiyo Sha signed a contract with the New York City Ballet, less than a mile from the home rink of the NYC Cyclones where Parson played for two years before being drafted onto the Rimouski Océanics._

_“I’ll definitely come see her. They’re doing the Nutcracker in spring, and I know Chi’s wanted to do the Sugar Plum Fairy for years. She’s working so hard to get it perfect, I can’t miss that. If we’re lucky, it might work with a game against the Rangers or the Islanders, and if not, I’ll find some other way. Of course I wish she’d chosen something closer, like the Los Angeles Ballet or San Francisco, but she’s worked as hard to get where she is as I have, and a five-month relationship can’t be what makes her decisions for her. We’ll just have to continue the best we can.”_

_A soccer ball rolls in front of us, and Parson steps forward to kick it back, waves at the kids before resuming our walk. He apologises, but he’s smiling, and I can tell he’s not sorry at all._

_“I’d love to do something for kids some day. Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of money, and most of my gear was second-hand. The coaches, too, but that’s another story.” He laughs. “No, they did their best, they really did, but lots of kids I played with quit because they didn’t have the means to continue, and I think that’s such a shame. We’re working on it on the Aces at the moment, I’m not sure what it’ll be yet, but we’re gonna give back to the kids, either here or in New York if I get a say, build up some kind of charity – or training camp, at least. There’ll be a proper announcement in a few months, when we know a little more. I’m really looking forward to it.”_

_That’s another side of being in the NHL, charity work and expectations outside of the rink as well._

_“It’s different from Juniors, for sure, but not that much. I mean, I was finishing up high school while training twice a day and playing two games a week, so I’m used to a bit of pressure. You have to be, if you want to make it to the top. They secret is time-management, if you’ll let me give a piece of advice to the boys in the position I was in a couple of years ago. Keep your dreams in mind and work hard, but make room for things that aren’t hockey, too. School, obviously, and your families, but girlfriends, too – especially if you want to keep her!”_

_We near the end of the park, and Parson asks me if I want to take another round. Or continue elsewhere. It’s getting late, and I know there’s a plane leaving early in the morning for Anaheim, but I can tell he’d comply if I say yes. And there is more I want to ask, but I settle on one last question. What’s next?_

_Parson thinks for a long moment before answering. “For now, I’m in Vegas. I’ve got four and a half years left on my contract, but I don’t have a no-trade clause, so if I don’t perform or something else gets in the way, I’ll be traded like everyone else, C or no C. Still, I’d like to stay. We’re a young team, we’re still figuring out how to be one, and there’s just something about being in the middle of that, creating a team rather than simply finding your place on one that I just love. It feels like we’re creating something entirely new, and I have no idea where we’ll end up, but I think it’s going to be good. And I’d love to get there.”_

_We say goodbye as the sun sets. Not far away, on the Strip, music has started up, and it mixes with the neon lights from casinos and strip clubs and marriage halls in a way that to me, a Bostonian, seems surreal. Parson, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice._

_“That’s just Vegas,” he tells me. “You get used to it when it becomes your home.”_

“What a buncha crap,” Kent said, let the magazine fall back down on Marina Teterya’s desk.

“It really is. But it’s crap to your advantage.”

He huffed. “Humanising me?”

“Your words, Parson, not mine.”

“Hm.” Kent flipped a page, looked at the picture of him, somehow taller than in real life, cowlick out of control beneath the Aces cap. Calm but still a rebel. “Didja ask them not to ask about Zimms?”

“No. I told them it wasn’t necessary. And they agreed.”

Kent quirked an eyebrow. “And how much shit didja have on them?”

She smiled, thin and predatory. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Your job is to play hockey. And look after the team now that you’re captain.”

“You take care of the rest.”

“I do.”

Kent nodded, closed the magazine. “You’ve never asked me about Zimms.”

Marina Teterya tilted her head. “Do I need to?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t.” She smiled. “Don’t make me regret that.”

-/ \\-

Kent yawned. Around him, the airport was bustling, as if it hadn’t quite noticed it was five AM. Two years in Vegas – almost three – and it still surprised him some days.

Probably wouldn’t by the time his contract was up.

Life, he supposed. Montréal had felt strange the last time they’d played the Canadiens, little different from Toronto or Edmonton or Vancouver. Even New York was beginning to seem dull, predictable, odd in the way soft lips met his and the whistles she still blushed at. How she did it on demand, he had no idea. How it didn’t make her want to claw someone’s eyes out - 

”Holy shit.”

But he was in Vegas, picking up their newest edition and his family on the orders of the GM who’d always insisted he hadn’t minded Kent arriving at shit in the morning. The fucking liar.

Emmett Tady, good to have in a scruff, ticked up penalties like Swoops ticked up chicks. Taller than his skates suggested, no less ugly, a little girl asleep on his shoulder. At his side, his wife shot him an annoyed look and tugged the baby in her arms a little closer to her chest.

”Sorry,” Tady mumbled, almost too low for Kent to hear, then turned back to him. ”Can’t fucking believe it’s you.”

”Emmett!”

”They’re asleep, Laurie, they’re not hearing anything!” Rearranging his daughter to one arm, Tady held out a large, calloused hand. ”Nice to meet you off the ice, too. Sorry ‘bout that check last year.”

Kent smiled, shook his hand. ”Don’t worry, guys try to hit me all the time. Gotta respect the ones that succeed.”

”Thank you for coming to get us,” Laurie Tady said. “With playoffs coming up and all … “

”Captain’s duties. Being traded sucks.”

Laurie muttered something, but her husband spoke over her. ”One hell of a system you’ve got in Vegas. Mats would never have come.”

Steven Matthews, five-year captain of the New York Islanders. Glorified enforcer. ”He’s got a live-in wife and kids. You fuckers kinda stole my girlfriend.”

Tady snickered. “Careful, or Kavers’ll try his luck. He always had a thing for pretty little Asian girls. And stealing other guys’ women.”

“I dunno, she resisted Swoops. There’s no better faithfulness test than him.”

“Good to know.” Tady glanced to his wife who kept her eyes resolutely forward. Rearranged the baby in her arms.

”Our bags should come in soon.” Cold and brief, something Kent was going to stay as far out of as possible.

”Let’s go get ‘em, then,” Tady said, smiling as wide as ever. ”Mind taking her for a moment?”

Kent had little time to react before an armful of sleeping toddler was on his hip. Her hand grasped at his flannel, held on, but she didn’t wake. Small mercies.

”Sorry,” Laurie said, nodded towards her husband already making a beeline for the baggage claim.

”It’s cool,” Kent assured her, set to walking as well. If they hurried, he could still make a nap before practice.

They didn’t hurry. Or, Laurie didn’t. Kent considered offering to take the baby as well but thought better of it. He’d gone practices without sleep before.

At the baggage claim, Laurie all but ignored her husband in favour of the seats. With a grimace and a groan, she sat, ran a hand over her son’s head.

”You okay?”

”I’m alright. Just … ” she gestured to the sleeping child now lying on her chest. ”He’s not very old. And the birth was a little complicated.”

”Oh.” No big deal. Miracle of life. ”I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. ”It’s okay. Sit down, too, Courtney’s pretty heavy.”

Kent adjusted the girl in his arms – Courtney – but did as she said. ”’s not that bad. I do play hockey, y’know.”

A small grin, exhausted but no less real. ”Oh, I know. Emmett can’t shut up about you whenever he’s played the Aces. Are you really that dirty?”

“Nah, that’s just exaggeration. Sore losers, you know.”

She laughed. “You have no idea. I should probably warn you about that, you being captain and all.”

By the baggage claim, Tady was standing with his hands on his hips, glaring at the machine as if it would make it start faster.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Kent nodded at the child in Laurie’s arms. ”What’s his name?”

”Brett.” She chuckled. ”Emmett insisted. I think he sounds like some brainless jock. Looked like one, too, when he was born, you can still kind of see it.”

Kent glanced over. Sure enough, a couple of bruises were still visible on his bald, veiny head. ”How old is he? Exactly?”

”Three weeks. The doctors say he’ll be fine in another week or so.” Laurie sighed. ”I’ll have to find a new one now.”

Some things he’d never had to worry about. Silver linings. ”I can getcha some of the other WAGs’ numbers, if ya want. You guys tend to be good at sticking together, I’m sure one of ’em’ll give ya a hand or two settling in.”

“Thank you.” She sounded almost surprised. Tugged her child closer to her chest.

At the baggage claim, the machine set in motion, and Tady snatched up a couple of suitcases, walked back over. Setting them down, he cradled the toddler in Kent’s arms, pressed a kiss to the top of her head, another to his wife’s lips, soft and lingering.

Silver linings or breadcrumbs. Other things he’d never have to worry about, because he’d never have them outside of proforma and pretend, and he’d accepted that. It was that or quitting, and quitting wasn’t an option. Never had been. Fags didn’t belong on the ice, but he did. He had no right to anger.

“You okay?”

Kent smoothed out whatever expression had sneaked onto his face. Smiled. “Yeah, sorry, just real fu-, uh, tired. I’m tired.”

The corner of Laurie’s mouth twitched. “Makes two of us.”

“Three,” Tady said, yawned for the effect of it. “Let’s get outta here, yeah? Before Brett wakes up and none of us’ll be getting any sleep.”

A grin and a slap to his wife’s ass, and Kent followed a couple of steps behind them with one of the suitcases.

Another slap met Lutz’ padded ass during practice. Boston Bruins, 2004-2008. D-men. Partners. Nothing against Kent Parson on a good day, _nothing_ against the patented Parson-Zimmermann no-look one-timer, but that didn’t exist anymore, and nothing could ever come close.

On the ice, Lutz hooted and jumped into Tady’s side. They stumbled together, still laughing, bumped fists, moved towards centre ice at their own pace until Burke started yelling.

A good fucking team, a slight change to defence. Scraps looking more worried than he needed in his stall, Bubbles with stars in his eyes. Even a raised eyebrow from Monster. Commentators coming on each other’s face in Boston 2012 as another puck was reverted, returned to Kent’s stick and Pops could relax. As much as anyone ever could on the ice.

The lineman was following closely, had all game, nearly went in the way a couple of times, and had Kent been a lesser man, he would’ve worried about interference. Bias. But he was Kent fucking Parson and he was on fucking fire and he didn’t need to worry about anything other than black-clad D-men and a goalie with fire in his eyes. Blue flames, hard and cold, impossible to snuff out completely, and Kent didn’t need to.

The puck hit Swoops’ stick, met Scrappy’s, returned to his own just in time for a D-man to move in another direction and another to scramble towards him, too slow and too late and too fucking heavy. Kent threw himself to the side, turned on his heel, sent the puck in against the goalie’s glove. A few feet off, Swoops swirled around the other D-man, moved in, made room for Scrappy’s slapshot just in time for the goalie to miss it.

The horn blew, and Scrappy threw himself against the glass, raised his arm, widened his eyes in realisation the second before a fist hit his face. Stumbling backwards, roar cut off at the ground, he brought his hands to his nose, brought them back down with dark spots on his gloves and darker in his eyes.

Linemen and teammates, blood on the ice and exhaustion settling in bones in a way they couldn’t afford. Not with most of a period left.

In the end, they came apart like the shell of an oyster, loud and breaking, curses picked up by at least two microphones, but that was a problem for another day. Even for Burke on the bench inching ever closer to an inevitable heart attack. 

Dual penalties. Status quo. Good fucking entertainment, even if their fighting rates had gone up so far even Kent was getting concerned. They’d need to change that next season if they didn’t want it to become their brand, malleable as it still was.

At least they won. The Bruins goalie high-tailed it off the ice at 01:01 as the puck skirted across the ice, and Kent sped up, bumped into a Bruins forward on his way in a move that would haunt the rest of his career as gifs and pictures and whenever someone wanted to encourage smaller guys to play. Not that he cared. All that mattered was that he didn’t fall, he wasn’t hurt, the puck hit his stick. A few feet off, Tady and Lutz stopped a D-man’s revenge in its tracks, and Kent shot past them. Good fucking partners for sure, a strength to the team, a new era of Aces hockey, but the Bruins didn’t care. The other D-man stuck out his stick and snatched the puck mid-pass, shot it towards a teammate who made a swift 180 to race towards the Aces’ goal, two more moving in behind to cover him. Perfect timing, perfect execution. Elegant as elephants on figure skates.

Bruins hockey. So different from the Aces it could give someone whiplash if he wasn’t careful.

And for all the Aces’ pretence, for all the act and all the chaos, they were. Swoops and Scrappy stepped in together, brought chaos to the perfect order that was the Bruins, allowed for Carly to sweep in and shoot the puck back towards centre ice.

Kent received with a brief nod in return and started running.

They were turning, he heard, the Bruins, the men not coming towards him or towards the goal, but there was no need for noise. He bit in a breath, all he would need, drowned them all out with blood and adrenaline and conviction, benches and boards and anything but the empty goal coming increasingly closer.

In that moment, that perfect stillness before his stick came down and the puck left his control, he was alone on the ice. Truly alone.

Noise returned as an avalanche, a sea of black enveloping him, slamming in from behind and tearing him apart, the horn blaring behind it all, and he grinned, wide and real and breathless.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and in that moment, the perfect chaos, he was untouchable.

-/ \\-

Boston hadn’t been far from Samwell, he thought when Vegas once more swallowed up the victory. He could have gone.

It didn’t matter what he could and couldn’t have done. He hadn’t.

-/ \\-

First round passed with little issue, luck of the draw or rookies finally getting their shit together, who fucking knew, the second with a little more fight. Losing Pops to a Shark skating his ankle into the pipes hadn’t been pretty, but they’d won the match, and he’d wobbled off the ice with a thumbs up. The dressing room afterwards had still been silent.

First game of the Conference Finals, Adebayo, a draftee from the year before but better than the other backup goalie by a mile, skated onto the ice as the last to the supporting roar of the crowd and a greenish hue to his skin. By the time they entered the dressing room again, the green had been replaced by something red.

”If ya wanna drop your gloves, drop ’em,” Kent whispered to him as they sat down. ”Or else someone else will. Just give the sign.”

Aidy grinned at that, a little thin, still looking every bit nineteen years old and ready for whatever the world was gonna throw at him. With a slap to his shoulder, Kent left to go through the defence strategy with Scrappy.

Second period began with an elbow to his face as he raced after the puck and a fight by the Aces’ goal. Gloves on the ice. Not Aidy’s, black and red, a Coyote with a similar-coloured bruise on his face from Carly’s fists. Five minutes later, the gloves were black and white, and Scrappy scowled from the sin bin as Kent sent the puck in just above the goalie’s shoulder.

By the time they stepped off the ice for second break, three more goals had been added to the one of the first period, equally distributed and only adding to the animosity.

”If anyone isn’t feeling their best, tell me. Or Burke,” Kent said as soon as the door of the dressing room shut. ”Your pride’ll feel worse if we lose this than if ya don’t play again ‘til next match, believe me. Better back out before ya fuck up.”

No replies. He hadn’t expected any.

Still, when they stepped back onto the ice, Rezzy wasn’t with them, and the frown on Burke’s forehead had deepened.

”No unnecessary penalties. Please.”

Easy for him to say. The Coyotes were smelling blood and baring their fangs.

Three penalties later, one of which Kent’s, he was soaring forward, the taste of blood on his tongue from a dirty hit, red in the corners of his eyes, the occasional black adding little reassurance. Around them, above them, within them, the roar of the crowd had risen to new volumes, people pounding on the glass, a trail of blood on the ice spread from each goal to the other in the five minutes since a Coyote had lost his tooth. Good fucking entertainment, a dangerous road to go down.

And through it all, Kent skated forward, legs burning, throat all but closed up, stick firmly in his hands where it would stay until either it or he broke.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he was fucking invincible.

Between the pipes, the goalie’s eyes flickered, widened, shut close as Kent crashed into him, sending the puck over the line just before they fell in a mess of limbs. The horn blared above them, barely audible above the roar of the crowd and the blood rushing through Kent’s ears, but it was enough, and he was up before it ended, raised his stick with a roar that echoed through the building and was swallowed up completely by the rush on the ice.

Good goal, even if the goalie was bleeding. His own stick, the refs concluded, an unfortunate hit.

Dirty goal, even Kent was ready to admit that if there were no mics around, but this was Las Vegas, playoffs were playoffs, and they had a game to win. New strategies could come once they had the Cup.

Someone bumped into his shoulder on their way to the face-off circle, but there was always someone bumping into him. If he couldn’t handle that, he wouldn’t be in the fucking NHL.

Swoops won with little fight, flicked the puck straight to Carly’s stick before checking a Coyote out of the way to follow him, and Kent was right behind them. Within seconds, the puck came to him again, and he sped up, passed it off to Carly when a Coyote got a little too close, received when one neared him. As soon as he caught up, Swoops joined in as well.

And that was the mistake, Kent realised later, much later, when he finally reviewed the tape. They’d gotten too comfortable, the three of them, had paid too much attention to each other and the Coyotes in their vicinity. The other two had been too busy, Kent too high on adrenaline to notice the Coyote coming in from behind, just how close he’d gotten to the boards before it was too late.

There was no time for swearing as he sent the puck off, prayed Swoops would catch it. Get out of the way or keep the puck, and it hadn’t been a choice at all. Never had. Never would be.

Kent closed his eyes and braced for the hit.

Dirty, no doubt about that, not with the way Kent’s bones rattled inside of him and his helmet was knocked clean off, rolled a few feet away. For a second, the sounds of the rink disappeared as his head hit the boards and white-hot pain shot through his skull.

And then the Coyote was gone, quick as he’d come, skating after the puck that had just been sent off by a teammate. Sounds returned, overwhelming, pushing all else away, and Kent nearly fell to his knees. There was a ringing in his ears, he was gasping for air, the puck was getting away. Gritting his teeth until his skull felt like it was going to crack, he pushed himself off the boards and skated after it, caught up with the motherfucker. Their shoulders hit, each harder than the former, until the puck was played off elsewhere, and Kent wanted to fucking scream, to tear the man’s eyes out, to -

There was no fucking time. Another Coyote had taken hold of the puck, passed it back and forth between himself and a teammate, too swiftly advancing on the Aces’ goal where Aidy was on his knees, shins to the side and stick at the ready. The sweat on his brow was visible from centre ice. The fear in his eyes.

Nineteen.

Kent shot forward, dull pain between his eyes nothing like the searing hot anger burning through his entire body, pushed past another Coyote – or an Ace, or a ref – and grappled for the puck. Dirty again, but dirty was the word of the fucking game, and the puck was sent to a third Coyote before anything could happen, passed to a fourth as Scrappy appeared in front of him.

The fighting shifted until Aidy had to move not to be hit by Scrappy, or Bubbles, or some Coyote or other - and there were too many, too _fucking_ many of them, if only they could get the puck, their goal would be almost indefensible - 

It took Kent a second too long to figure out what they were up to.

To his left, a Coyote lifted his stick, hit the puck just before colliding with Bubbles. To his right, another Coyote ran Scrappy into the boards. Just in front of him, too far, too _fucking_ far away, a third Coyote picked up the pick and ran forward, forward, _forward_ \- 

The horn blew.

When the dust settled, Aidy was still lying in the goal, almost curled around the pipe, stick several feet away. Conscious, at least. Bubbles had pushed off the Coyote on him, almost sent him down onto the ice before skating over, squatting down and placing a hand on Aidy’ shoulder. Joining them was first a ref, then a lineman.

Something churned in Kent’s stomach, anger or something worse. There was still blood on his tongue, overwhelming in taste, nauseating.

The Coyotes didn’t see Scrappy coming, grouped together for a celly as they were. Someone had pushed the helmet off whoever had scored, a rookie, Kent remembered vaguely. Probably his first NHL goal, if the noogies were anything to go by. Kent’s head throbbed in sympathy. The hit was straight on, Scrappy pushing and tearing his way to the middle of the crowd, finally punching the guy clear in the face. A sound like something breaking tore through the air as the his head whipped back, blood already flowing from his nose, more red in a sea of it, Scrappy the one piece of black in the middle.

He was going to get mobbed. But not before getting in as many punches as he could.

The rookie’s head whipped back again, eyes glazed over, just as the first punch hit Scrappy.

It was the last Kent saw, the last he fully remembered before his own body lurched and the taste of bile pushed away the blood. Every other step towards the bench it repeated itself, until he all but fell through the door, landed hard on his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

”Jesus fucking Christ!” someone yelled, but Kent didn’t listen. There were tears in his eyes, burning his throat as well, and his head felt like it had been under a steamroller. Far away and intangible, loud in the roar of quiet.

Someone helped him up, and he followed, swallowed, only opened his eyes when he was sat down again. A face settled in front of his, warm fingers on his jaw lifting up -

”Concussion.”

A protest was on Kent’s tongue, but no words made it out of his mouth. There was still bile in his throat, warm and acidic and terrible, and if his eyeballs weren’t melting out of his skull, he didn’t want to know what they were doing. Or how he was still able to see, even if it hurt like ice picks being plunged into the softest parts of his brain.

”Someone get him outta here!” Burke yelled. ”And clean that shit up!”

Strong hands settled under his arm, threw his own over broad shoulders and pulled him up once again, and again Kent wanted to protest, and again nothing.

”Close your eyes,” a voice close to his ear said, and Kent shivered. Did as he was told.

There was noise, but he didn’t hear it.

-/ \\-

It was dark. So dark Kent couldn’t tell if he was standing or lying down.

There was pain, somewhere, hidden beneath wool and cotton, a tightly knitted blanket of the pain meds his Ma would never give him as a kid and which he wouldn’t take for a second longer than necessary. Too many ruined careers. Too many bathroom floors.

But that was Montréal, and he was in Las Vegas.

What had woken him up, he couldn’t tell, but awake he was, awake and alone in his giant-ass bed with expensive linen and expensive bedsheets almost kicked onto the floor. The darkness was still there, thick and impenetrable save for a single line of sunshine fighting its way through a tiny crack in the curtains. Someone hadn’t shut them properly. Kent had no idea who.

With a groan, he turned his head, looked for numbers that weren’t there, redness that would tear him to pieces. Removed without him remembering.

He was hungry. He didn’t want to move.

The curtains in the living room had been pulled fully shit, and Kent padded through to the kitchen with only minimal pain and one minor stumble. One good thing about never rearranging anything in his apartment, he could find his way around in the dark without issue.

Pouring a bowl of cereal quickly proved impossible, and so Kent found himself slumped on the floor with his head against the comfortably cool oven. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten like this, tried not to wonder just how much was spread on the floor around him.

If the concussion he’d had at thirteen had been as bad, he needed to apologise to his Ma. Thank her.

When he was allowed to pick up a phone again.

The nurse stopping by every other day to check he hadn’t choked somewhere told him another week. He didn’t question it.

By day fourteen, Kent found himself staring into the mirror of his bathroom, fully understanding the continuously deepening frowns of the nurse and wondering if he should just officially join Movember. May-vember. Maystache. With a grimace, he grabbed for the razor by the sink.

”It’s your own fault,” Molyneux said on day seventeen, subtly running a finger over the counter in Kent’s kitchen. ”You could’ve just stayed in the hospital.”

”I don’t like hospitals,” Kent answered from where he was sprawled in an arm chair, refusing to give Molyneux the satisfaction of seeing him stumble while standing still.

”Make sure you die at home, then. Speaking of, your mother’s been calling me like crazy, are you sure you don’t want her here?”

”She’s got three kids in kindergarten and a job. Tell her I’ve got someone around, yeah?”

Molyneux huffed, lifted his fancy hipster-coffee to his mouth. ”Sure. Just take care, the Aces need you next season.”

Kent swallowed. ”This one’s out.”

”This one’s out.”

”Who’s looking after the team?”

”I think they’re looking after each other.”

”So there’s nothing I can do.”

Molyneux shrugged. “Get better. Don’t come back after off-season out of shape.”

Kent rolled his eyes, bit back a groan from the throbbing behind them. He needed water.

”You’re a smart young man, Parson,” Molyneux said, balled up his cup and threw it into the trash. ”You’ll find a way to entertain yourself. Just don’t get yourself involved in too many scandals. I don’t think anyone wants miss Teterya to dump your body in some alley somewhere.”

“I promise I won’t get my half-unconscious body dragged into a hotel by an older man.”

With one last glare, Molyneux left, shut the door behind him a little too hard. Left Kent in the darkness and the silence, the nausea rising in his throat. The anger just beneath it.

As if he had the right.

-/ \\-

The music soared, and Chiyo with it. Something like a gasp went through the theatre as she jumped, jumped again, whispered across the stage as if barely even touching it with a look of pure serenity on her face. There was a bent to her wrist, a curve to her back that shouldn’t be possible, another to her leg that looked both painful and angelic, and Kent could see the music in her. The twists and turns of her body, every jump and twirl. Music and strength that shouldn’t be possible in a body so slight and fragile, except she wasn’t fragile, not on stage as she pulled the music along with her, captured every eye in the room and smiled as if she hardly noticed.

She was beautiful, ethereal, and for the briefest of moments, another jump lasting a lifetime and stealing the breath of hundreds of people, he understood.

Afterwards, as she sat on a chair with a floral shawl around her shoulders, makeup too bright and harsh in the harsher lightning and with sweat sticking to the back of her neck, her breath coming out a bit too hard, she still managed to look larger than she was. Powerful, despite almost being hidden behind a bouquet of roses someone had handed her. It was the same shade as her lipstick, dark red, a stark contrast to her dress so pale a pink it almost looked white, but it didn’t hurt her. Nothing could, it seemed, as she laughed at something an older man in a sharp suit said, readjusted the bouquet in her arms and purposefully did not move her legs. Long and elegantly bent, a white bandage invisible on her ankle against equally white tights unless you knew what to look for. Power only just hidden beneath a layer of something demure and gentle, soft as her eyes met his.

“You were amazing up there,” Kent said, kept his eyes soft, too, only on her. The kiss was delicate, impossible for even a nun to object to, and she made sure to widen her smile and hide a blush behind the bouquet.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The moment was broken by the older man saying something in a language Kent didn’t know, and Chiyo replied. Allowed him to press a lingering kiss to her hand and hold it in his for just a beat too long. With a nod at Kent, he left.

They weren’t alone, both aware of that, but Kent still plopped down in the chair next to her. Concussion, if anyone asked. He lowered his voice. “Someone wants to fuck you.”

She smiled, thin and wicked. Possibly even real. “He does. But he won’t get to.”

“Not your type?”

“No.” Placing the bouquet onto a small table, she loosened her hair from its impossibly tight bun and let it fall onto her shoulder. ”I am meeting someone at a ball later. Will you take me there?”

“Sure. Do I need to dress up?”

She glanced at his suit. “I would appreciate it.”

They reconvened a street down from the address she had given him, walked together at a leisurely pace hiding the slight tremble in her leg. Not quite healed, but healed enough, and if Kent had the chance to go back on the ice with a bandage on his brain, he would.

Instead, he let her go with a quick peck in the ballroom, grabbed a flute of champagne off a waiter’s tray and hoped he didn’t look half as out of place as he felt. Sixteen years in New York, and there were still places he’d never seen.

Across the room, Chiyo greeted a middle-aged woman in a deep red dress, both looking every bit the part except for matching smiles that didn’t fit. Private in a way that made nausea rise in Kent’s throat, and he looked away. Good for her. None of his business.

An hour later found him taking a sip of a new flute of champagne, and nodding along to whatever the man in front of him was saying. He’d stopped fully listening after the first couple minutes, the time it had taken him to realise that the man, Johansson (Johnson? Jones?) was talking about football. American or not, he was still a fucking hockey player. A hockey player mingling at a ball while his team were getting their asses kicked two thousand miles away in a game he wasn’t allowed to watch, but still a hockey player.

Johansson (Jackson? Johansson.) was still droling on, gesturing wildly with his hands. At some point, the flute held in one of them would tip over, and he would be bathed in champagne. At this point, Kent would almost pay to see it. Las Vegas in one gesture, really. Bathed in champagne.

”Don’t you think?”

”Yeah, of course. Absolutely.” Kent nodded, and Johansson continued, face reddening and champagne nearing the rim of his flute. It would only be one other gesture, one bad question and - 

Someone was looking at them. A man, older than Kent but younger than Johansson, same height and, more notably, same build as Kent, ruffled dark hair framing a soft-looking face. Standing by himself in a small crowd of socialites, he looked entirely out of place and blended in perfectly at the same time.

And he was still staring at Kent who repressed the urge to square his shoulders. Stared back.

The man’s face contorted into something Kent eventually realised was a smile. An odd one, not reaching his mouth yet somehow filling his entire body. Crinkled his eyes, blue eyes that were nothing like Jack’s, soft rather than glazed over, unmoving rather than darting. He raised his flute.

Kent’s mouth twitched.

” … damn shame, don’t you agree?”

And the moment was gone. Kent looked back at Johansson and cleared his throat. ”Yes, completely. It’s a disgrace.”

Johansson nodded solemnly. ”Truly.”

When Kent looked back, the man was gone. The crowd looked empty.

Probably for the best, he decided, sipped his champagne and nodded along to whatever Johansson was now saying. He’d need to stop drinking soon if he didn’t want the soft beat in the back of his head to strengthen. Go back to his hotel room and draw the curtains shut.

Across the room, Chiyo was still talking to the middle-aged woman, a little too close to be anything but purposeful, far enough away to not draw any suspicion. Unless you knew what you were looking for. If he was right, she’d probably slip out soon, and he could leave as well.

”Excuse me.”

Quiet, but Johansson’s words still cut off as had someone pulled his plug. Kent blinked.

The beautiful man smiled, with his mouth this time. ”I’m sorry to interrupt, but I saw you across the room and I just had to tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes.”

Kent nearly choked on his champagne, but it was nothing compared to Johansson’s spluttering. The step he took back, as if the man scared him. The fucking coward.

”Perhaps,” the beautiful man continued. ”I could get you something more to drink?”

An excuse made it past Johansson’s lips, and he fled before anyone could tell him that, in fact, no one was calling his name.

The beautiful man turned to Kent, the smile in his eyes back in full force. Or what Kent hoped was full force. ”Would you like a drink?”

It was getting late, and Chiyo would be leaving soon, and he had a fucking concussion. And the man’s smile deepened, deep blue eyes glinting in the overhead lights.

Kent downed the rest of his champagne. “Why not.”

The odd smile from earlier returned, sent small sparks down Kent’s spine that didn’t go away until they found themselves in front of a small tower of champagne flutes, neatly arranged, now two glasses missing.

”It’s almost a crime to ruin it,” the beautiful man said.

”It’s there to be drunk.”

”True. And can something be truly beautiful if it’s ruined by change?”

“Guess not.” Kent took another sip of champagne, revelled in the buzz in his veins. Not like ice, nothing like it, but exciting nonetheless. “Thanks for saving my ass back there.”

”I had to. You looked like a fox in a bear trap.”

”Sorry?”

”Injured and in a trap you could easily escape were you not.”

Kent’s face fell. He covered it with a smirk. ”You know who I am, then.”

”I don’t.”

”Then how do you know I’m injured?”

”I didn’t.”

Kent opened his mouth to answer, but across the room, Chiyo gave him a subtle wave, nodded to an exit, and he gave her a nod back. Free at last. The man followed his eyes, and Kent saw the question form on his lips.

“Inflated balls.”

Blue eyes returned to Kent. “Sorry?”

”Was what he was talking about, the guy you saved me from. At least I think it was what he was talking about. I didn’t really understand any of it.”

The man nodded, lips slightly pursed. ”Not a bad conversation topic. That was quite a scandal.”

”What was?”

Another smile, a teasing glint that made more sparks run down Kent’s spine. ”I take it you don’t play football?”

He shook his head. ”I’m an ice hockey kinda guy.”

”Ice hockey?”

”That surprising to ya?”

Blue eyes took him in, head to toe, made Kent feel both impossibly tiny and like he could conquer the fucking world. ”I suppose a little. You didn’t seem the type.”

”What’s the type?”

”Odd beards,” the man said without missing a beat. ”Missing teeth. An aura of rash fearlessness.”

Kent snorted. ”And that’s not me?”

”You’re too clever.”

”Clever?”

”It’s a good look on you.” He smiled, softly, and Kent felt suddenly hot. Blamed it on the champagne. The concussion. The suit.

Still, he took another sip of champagne. Swallowed. ”Never heard that one before.”

”Is it working?”

Kent looked around the room briefly, then stuck out his hand. ”Kent Parson.”

The man’s hand was soft against his, save for a few callouses on his fingertips. ”Navid Williams. Is Kent short for Kenneth?”

”Nah, just Kent.”

”That’s a shame.”

”Why?”

”Because it would be so fitting for you.”

Kent barked a laugh. ”What’s that mean? You some kind of numerologist or something?”

”Christian, I’m afraid. But I keep my possibilities open.” He winked, and Kent hid behind his flute again. Jack had once mentioned how many times it took to form a habit. Kent couldn’t remember the number.

There was no way he wasn’t regretting it in the morning, but there was already so much he regretted. He could deal with one more thing. ”You never told me what you do?”

Navid smiled. ”I’m a musician.”

“Anything I’ve heard?”

”Perhaps you have, perhaps you haven’t. Does it matter?”

Kent shrugged. ”Guess not.”

”What we do is not who we are.”

” … you’re not high, are ya?”

Navid’s eyes glinted. ”Not at all.”

”Good.” Kent shifted his weight. ”Blunt breath’s fucking horrible.”

”I’ve never actually tried that, but I’ll take your word for it.”

”You don’t give shit like that a shot?”

”I don’t like unnecessary dangers.”

”But you still take risks?”

”When I find a good reason to, yes.”

”And what constitutes a good reason?”

Navid thought it over. ”I’ve always liked eyes. Mirrors of the soul, as they say.”

Kent glanced around the room. No Chiyo, no one looking at them. He licked his lips. ”So what do mine say about me?”

”I can’t say. In this light, I can’t even tell their colour.”

The buzz in Kent’s blood heightened, tore through his ears and up his throat. It had been so long, so fucking long, and Navid was beautiful, dark-haired and blue-eyed and soft-spoken and right there. Kent was only a man. ”Perhaps we should go to another lighting?”

Navid exhaled, and if Kent had had any doubts, they went out the window. ”Please.”

 _Please_ , like he was something precious, and Kent swallowed a smile in the last of his champagne, walked a good few feet behind Navid out into the New York air. Appreciated the ass that was nothing like Jack’s but still nice. The stubble outlining his jaw, rough beneath Kent’s hands as a door shut behind them and Kent drew their lips together. It wasn’t soft, not by a long fucking shot, wasn’t fucking meant to be, and Navid responded in turn, one hand moving to Kent’s waist, the other settling in his hair.

He kissed like a dream, soft and firm, yielding and dominating all at once, with the occasional tip of his tongue just barely prodding its way between Kent’s lips. It was nice, warm down to Kent’s toes, but Navid’s hands were warm on his waist, already burning through his dress shirt, and his cologne was clear in his nose, and Kent wanted more.

Moving his hand down Navid’s chest, he popped open a button, then one more, drew a finger down the warm skin underneath until he got to a belt and a warm hand settled on top of his. Another moved to his jaw, held him in place.

”The fuck’re you doing?” Kent whispered against a soft kiss, a much deeper one that he felt in the tips of his toes.

”Taking my time.”

Kent’s hands moved to Navid’s arms. Squeezed at the muscle there. ”Why the ever-loving fuck wouldja do that?”

In return, Navid nipped his lower lip. ”Because it’s fun. Besides, I’m old. I have patience.”

”I don’t.”

With a well-placed push to his chest, Navid’s back hit the wall, and Kent wasted no time moving a leg between his and grinding down, dirty and hard in a way that made him wince ever so slightly.

Playoffs were stressful. Fucking sue him.

But still Navid did nothing but kiss him back, closed-mouthed and soft, hand finding its way onto Kent’s waist again, and he let out a small noise, licked across Navid’s bottom lip. Nothing. There was a hardness against his own, undeniable, and still fucking _nothing_ ready.

Before he could say anything, demand, God forbid _beg_ , Navid touched his thigh, burned a mark the shape of his hand and pushed it aside until he could grind down, hard and dirty until Kent finally screamed, stifled as much as he could of his dignity in a pillow. There was barely time to come back up for air before Navid’s mouth returned to his, moved in the same rhythm as his hips, slow and deliberate until Kent’s were moving against him by their own volition.

Only when a soft, warm hand wrapped around them both did Kent notice their underwear was gone, too, and all he could do was throw his head back in a silent moan, tug at Navid’s shoulders, scratch at the hard muscles in his back. A mouth, Navid’s mouth, settled on his, lips moving at the same pace as his hand, stubble scratching against Kent’s chin and cheeks, and Kent thanked whatever God there might or might not be that Navid hadn’t decided to blow him. He wouldn’t have lasted, and it would’ve been so much more embarrassing than it had ever been with Jack.

Jack.

Above him, Navid moved slightly, and Kent followed, captured his mouth in another kiss that felt like jumping into deep water, but Kent was ready to drown. The weight against him was a constant, comforting and -

\- was that what Jack had liked? Had Kent made him feel like that? When they -

”Fuck me.”

A moment of perfect stillness, Navid’s lips just by his ear. ”Are you sure?”

Warm breath, burning skin, blue eyes, blue and honest and soft and - 

”Yes.”

No going back, Kent reminded himself as the heat disappeared, as the cold began to creep into his skin. And he didn’t want to. The sound of rustling covers filled the air, something opening and closing, something popping, and Kent forced himself to breathe. If Jack could do it - 

He wasn’t going to think of Jack. He was going to try.

Navid settled back between his legs, spread them gently and pressed a kiss to the soft skin of his inner thigh. ”Still sure?”

The ’no’ was ready to spring from Kent’s tongue, but he bit it down. He’d brought it up, he was ready to fucking _come_ , and the eyes on him were so, so blue. ”Yes.”

Another kiss was pressed to his thigh, and then something wet and shockingly cold touched him. Kent gasped, arched his hips on instinct, fell back down as the finger pressed into him. Hid his face in the pillow.

Not what he’d imagined. Not by far.

”Tell me if you change your mind. I’ll stop.”

Kent schooled his face into something more composed. Jack had taken all of him. He could take a fucking finger. ”Keep going.”

At last, he felt Navid’s knuckle hit and almost breathed out in relief. Navid leaned forward and kissed him, long and sweet. Kent bit his lip.

The second finger made Kent readjust his position, spreading his legs even further and grasping a handful of the covers tightly. The pain wasn’t acute, but it was constant, and he forced himself to relax, deep breaths, a warm hand on his thigh rubbing soothing circles into the skin. Another wrapped around his free hand, wove its fingers through his. A light squeeze. Gentle and warm.

Suddenly, the fingers inside of him curled and Kent cried out, back arching off the mattress.

”Careful,” Navid laughed. ”You nearly knocked me one there.”

Kent gave him the finger before crying out again. ”Jesus, Mary and Joseph on a fucking donkey,” he breathed, startled another laugh out of Navid.

”Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” he whispered and leaned forward to press a kiss against Kent’s mouth as he pushed his fingers in even further. Added a third. ”Try to relax.”

The fingers inside of him curled again and Kent gasped, squeezed his eyes shut, bit down a sound on his fist until he could breathe again. ”Jesus fucking Christ, just _fuck_ me already, willya?”

The smile was audible, and Kent could’ve fucking punched him. ”If that’s what you want.”

”If that’s what I – that’s what I fucking want so just fucking do it, yeah?”

And just like that, the pressure inside of him was gone, as was Navid on top of him. Kent gasped at the sudden emptiness, the sudden cold, slacked his grip on the covers. Through his own ragged breaths, he heard the unmistakable yet faint sound of a condom wrapper getting torn open, and before long, the mattress dipped again. A hand settled on his thigh, rubbed slightly at the skin before pressing it to the side. Warm lips pressed against his, long and lingering, and Navid reached down between his legs, stroked him a couple of times, licked away his whines.

”Ready?”

”Just fucking do it.”

He didn’t watch, couldn’t, didn’t want to see it, and was so caught completely off guard when Navid brushed against him for the slightest of seconds before pressing in.

The only sound he made was the small crack of his neck as he threw his head back, mouth open in what was either pleasure or pain. The fit was tight, so much tighter than before, so much _more_ , and Kent was on fucking fire. His hands fisted in the covers again as Navid moved in small, shallow thrusts, gasping slightly at each move. Good for him, and Kent tried adjusting his hips to chase some, any kind of pressure, but Navid’s hands moved to hold them down.

”Patience,” he breathed, slid himself in a little harder than before and bit down Kent’s moan.

It was good. Painful, deeply uncomfortable, unlike anything Kent had ever felt before, and good despite of it. Their hips met, and Kent exhaled, didn’t relax his hold on Navid’s biceps, chased a kiss that refused to deepen. That Navid refused to deepen, the _fucking_ asshole. Kent growled, bit down on his lower lip, and Navid moved to press a kiss to his forehead instead.

”Jesus _fucking_ Christ, you’re infuriating,” Kent breathed, and he laughed, high and breathless, pressed a quick peck to Kent’s mouth before grabbing the back of his thighs and lifting them up, moving in impossibly deeper. Another sound, another crack, and still no screams. No air for them.

Jack had screamed.

Kent bit down on Navid’s shoulder, rolled his eyes back as his hips rolled with purpose, long, hard thrusts that made spots appear in his vision.

”Harder.” It was a broken sound, so close to begging he almost choked on it, but the pace stayed the same, even when Kent whined and dragged his nails down Navid’s back. ”I said. Fucking. _Harder_.”

For a couple thrusts, Navid obeyed, moved just enough for Kent’s head to fall back, for him to near something so unknown and so familiar it threatened to tear him apart, then stopped, returned to a similar pace as earlier. Slow and deliberate, and perhaps he really was going to beg.

But not yet.

”Fuck you,” Kent hissed into his ear and received a kiss under his own in return. With another growl, he thrust his hips forward, seeking just a fraction of what Navid had given him before, the heat against his stomach, but strong hands held him down. Soft lips on his throat, soft and gentle, and he wanted to fucking _scream_ \- 

”Stop being so angry,” Navid whispered before licking the shell of his ear, angling himself just right to make Kent shudder.

”Stop being – such a fucking tease.”

A kiss on the mouth, pulling away as Kent surged into it. ”Patience, Kenneth.”

Another whine, and Kent fumbled until he got hold of Navid’s chest hair, tugged until he could swallow down a groan, a tightening of the hand in his. A harder kiss, softer thrusts inside of him.

”Oh, _fuck_ you!”

Navid smiled onto Kent’s jaw, left wet kisses down until once again finding his mouth. Instead of biting, Kent kissed back, pulled Navid even closer to him, forced his muscles to relax, one by one. Revelled in the heat pressing against him again, the growing friction.

”That’s it,” Navid murmured into his ear. With a sudden move, the pace returned, and Kent cried out, cut off by a mouth once more that he could only gasp into.

He felt like a fucking whore, but it didn’t matter, because slowly, infuriatingly slow, he neared an edge again, circled it as Navid’s tongue did his chest, his neck, his jaw, his mouth, circling but never falling in. He dragged his nails down Navid’s back, too blunt to draw blood, or maybe he did, and it didn’t matter, because something was building, so slow tears pushed behind his eyes, tears he was too fucking proud to let fall even if he was going insane.

And he was, had to be, there was nothing else to explain the way the world closed in, disappeared, the way he was burning up and burning to ashes, drowning in water that wasn’t real until it was finally too much, and all air he had left was punched out of him, left him blind and deaf and _gone_ , torn down and ripped apart and stripped of anything human. Through the haze, the world that no longer existed, Navid’s pace inside of him sped up, carnal in every sense of the word, until he stiffened, too, cried out in the pillow next to his ear.

Eventually, as Navid rode the last waves of pleasure, Kent Parson remembered his own name. The heat disappeared as Navid pulled out and fell down on the bed next to him, flushed and panting and beautiful. Gasping in a breath of his own, Kent folded out his legs, ignored the burn stretching down to his knees. Tried not to move.

He didn’t realise he was shivering until Navid had pulled a cover over them both. Settled against his side, a constant pressure of unwavering warmth. “You okay?”

Kent barked out a laugh, little more than a hark. Sweat was drying on his skin, sweat and come and a feeling of dullness spreading through his limbs until he couldn’t move. “You just fucked me, so whaddaya think.”

Against his chest, Navid smiled. ”I didn’t fuck you.”

”Then what the fuck do ya call what we just did?”

”I call that making love.”

Kent snorted.

”You think that’s funny?”

”Fuck yeah, I do. It’s fucking hilarious.”

”Why?”

Kent opened his mouth. Closed it again. ”It just is.” Before Navid could say anything, he continued. ”It’s an old-fashioned thing to say. Something for married couples. Or people in love.”

”You don’t think sex needs love?”

Another snort left Kent’s nose, made him sound like a fucking pig, but embarrassment was so far gone it wasn’t even funny. ”We’ve only known each for, like, two hours. I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.”

Navid shrugged, moved a hair off Kent’s forehead, fingers lingering on his temple. Kent tried to repress a shiver at the touch, failed miserably, didn’t resist when Navid moved in for a kiss.

”I’m not talking about being in love. I’m just saying love can take many forms.”

”You sound like a Bible study.”

”I have been to quite a few of those in my time.”

Another kiss, a soft press of lips at first, then more insistent. Kent wove his fingers through his hair and gave it a slight tug, received a bite to his lip in return.

”Kenneth means handsome, you know,” Navid whispered, pressed another kiss onto the soft skin just beneath his jaw. ”’s why I was so surprised it wasn’t your name.”

Kent’s eyes flew open. ”Are you serious?”

With a hum, Navid kissed his jaw again.

”Are you fucking kidding me?”

”Why would I do that?”

Kent’s head fell back onto the pillow. ”You’re a fucking riot, y’know that?”

”The good sort, I hope.”

”The one that brings on revolutions.”

Navid looked up. For a long moment, he and Kent stared at each other before both succumbing to a fit of laughter.

”’The one that brings on revolutions’?”

”Oh, fuck you, like you wouldn’t say shit like that!”

”It’s a pretty good line, actually, I might use it in a song.”

Kent gave him a light shove. ”Fuck you.”

”Already did that.”

Their eyes met again. Deep blue, soft and teasing. Warm, like the hand on his stomach. The breath on his skin. The five weeks of summer before the Fourth.

“Maybe you should do it again,” Kent said, and Navid smiled. Pulled him for another kiss. And Kent kissed back, because in the privacy of Navid’s apartment, the anonymity of New York City, the Aces two thousand miles away, he had the right. And no one could take it from him.


	7. 2012/13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kent goes home, tries to figure out what he wants, and visits Samwell University for the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: again, sex, some of which toeing the line of consensual, and a couple instances of gross but only once directly sexual discussions about women's bodies.
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by 'Past, Present and Future' by the Shangri-Las, 'Oh Beautiful Town' by IAMX, and 'New Rules' by Dua Lipa.

Kent woke up with a dull pain in the back of his skull and the sun in his eyes. The spot next to him in the bed was empty, as it was every morning. Still warm. With a sigh, he cracked his neck, revelled in the burn in his thighs. Grinned at the memory.

The kitchen was empty, as was the adjoined living room. In the quiet, he turned on the old coffee maker that only ever worked for him, whistled a tune he couldn’t remember the name of as the water boiled. Tried to remember which cupboard held the mugs. After a couple of tries, he pulled out two.

Something warm and furry tickled his calf.

”Good morning to you, too,” Kent murmured and bent down to give the small ball of fur at his feet a quick kiss on the head. She meowed loudly, and he gave her a last rub on the head, then stood to fill her bowl. ”Impatient little lady, aren’t ya? Wonder where ya get that from.”

Sapphira didn’t answer. He’d need to worry about that fucking concussion if she did.

The coffee maker shut off with a hiss. Two black, nothing added.

Navid was on the porch, as he was every morning, guitar in his lap and a hum of something new. As Kent got closer, he looked up. Smiled. Let his eyes linger on the skin on display.

”Like whatcha seeing?”

”I do. Coffee in the morning, what a luxury.” Navid accepted the mug, and Kent sat down next to him.

”Just the coffee?”

”Maybe the company, too.”

He pressed a soft kiss to Kent’s lips, left behind a trail of coffee and tangy oranges. Every morning without fail.

They drank in silence, watched the water of Lake Champlain glint in the early morning light. When he squinted, Kent could swear he could make out the railway tracks along the cliff side. New York to Montréal. And back again.

“I think it’s further down,” Navid had said the one time he’d mentioned it, and Kent had kissed him until he forgot again.

”The Spicers are up,” Navid noted that morning, and Kent followed his eyes. They were indeed, sitting on their own porch, laughing and touching like they were still on their honeymoon. ”I’d like to be like that when I’m old.”

”Having someone you’re still so much in love with?”

”Just still being young inside. I can be happy on my own, I think.”

Kent nodded. ”What were you singing, just now?”

”Just some new song. I haven’t gotten very far.”

”Is it any good?”

”I hope it will be, one day.”

Kent took another sip of coffee. ”This one about your sister, too?”

”Not this one, no. This one’s about someone else.”

”Who?”

“Perhaps you. Perhaps someone else.”

”So it’s about sex?”

Navid shrugged. ”Something like that. Or nothing like that.”

A fucking weirdo, but the weather was too nice. ”Can I hear it one day?”

”I very much hope you will.”

*

Kent threw his head back and gasped for breath. The mouth on his neck drew back in what had to be a smile, and Kent’s fingers tightened in the pillow before moving to grasp at the shoulder blade above him. Slippery and warm, and Kent forced his nails in deeper, earned himself a slight groan of pain followed by an even harder roll into him.

He was close, and Navid knew it. Always fucking did.

A hand forced his head to the side, drew him in for an open-mouthed kiss that Kent returned for just a second before pulling back. Ignoring the shake in his body and Navid’s continued movement, he ran a slow hand down his jawline, ignored the sting in his wrist at the odd angle and pressed their lips together softly. Pretend had been lost several weeks before.

And it always fucking worked.

With a groan into his shoulder, Navid hoisted Kent’s his hips up and changed his angle, left Kent with little to do other than tighten his hold on the pillow, Navid’s hand beneath his own, the already ruined sheets. Ripped one day, if not by him then a future lover, and not today. He came with a vacuum in his throat and the taste of detergent and his own spit on the pillow between his teeth, Navid shuddering above him with his face buried in his shoulder.

For a long second, a handful of breaths he couldn’t be bothered to count, they stayed together in the returning silent. Unmoving and perfect. Statues in the beginning dusk.

And apart. Navid fell down on the bed next to Kent, still breathing hard. It should be cold without him, and Kent kept his muscles still, waited, but nothing came. The condom hit the bin a few feet off the bed, the most disgusting fucking sound Kent had ever heard, and Navid exhaled.

“Are you alright?”

Pushing himself off the bed by his elbows, Kent turned onto his back, grimaced at the ache. ”Fuckin’ awesome. If we keep this up, my trainer’s gonna be asking _me_ for workout tips.”

Navid laughed, because Navid was too fucking classy to snort. ”You better show him, then.”

And Kent snorted, because Kent wasn’t a fucking snob. ”He’s twenty years older than me, married with two kids, and he once called Channing Tatum a fucking fairy queer.”

”Sounds like internalised homophobia to me.”

”Sounds like someone I’m not fucking flirting with to me.”

The stubble was harsh against his skin, threatened to draw blood but never did. Always worse in the evening, never enough to stop Kent from kissing back. ”It’s good to hear that concussion hasn’t done anything to your self-preservation.”

”That’s gonna take more than couple of concussions. I’m a paranoid motherfucker.”

*

A hand on his shoulder roused Kent from sleep, and he pulled the covers over his head with a groan. ”Wha’ss it?”

No answer. The shaking stopped, and Kent settled back into his pillow. Closed his eyes again.

Until the covers were forcibly ripped off him.

”What the fuck, man?”

From where he was half-leaning over him, almost obscured in the darkness, Navid smiled. ”Early bird catches the worm. We’re going fishing.”

”Fishing.”

Letting his grin grow wider, Navid nodded. It was a nice sight, and had just a couple more hours passed, Kent would’ve pulled him down on the bed and started the morning in style. Instead, he glanced at the clock and bit down something that would inevitably turn angry. It barely even counted as morning.

”Of course it does,” Navid insisted. ”And it’s the perfect time for fishing.”

Kent squinted. ”Don’tcha have an album to write? Or something to do that isn’t waking me up at ass o’clock?”

A warm hand settled over his. ”Please, Kent. Trust me.”

And perhaps it was the insane hour, the three weeks of mind-blowing sex and coffee on the front porch, or the conversation that always stopped when he wished it would, but Kent did. ”You’re not gonna give up, are ya?”

”Nope.”

”Can I put some clothes on first?”

A pair of lips pressed against his, slightly chapped and impossibly warm. ”Not for my sake, baby. But if you’re more comfortable that way … ”

With a groan, Kent rolled out of bed, landed on his feet like a deer on ice. Navid’s eyes were on his back, burning into it, possibly a little further down as he reached down to put on the underwear thrown onto the floor the night before. ”Don’t call me baby.”

The bed creaked, and another kiss was pressed to the crook of his shoulder. ”I’ll keep that in mind.”

The first rays of sun curled above the horizon as they walked out, illuminated the dirty white fur of Sapphira asleep on the kitchen floor. The beautiful, beautiful kitten. Blinking himself to something a little more awake, Kent wondered if Navid would mind him stealing her too much. Then again, he wasn’t even sure she was his.

”Beautiful, isn’t it?”

”I guess.”

It was, but there was no way in hell he was admitting that. Not after three hours of standing in cold water only wearing a pair of butt-ugly mud green overalls. Horrible even for him. His hands were already hurting from holding the fishing rod, and while the lake looked breathtaking as the last minutes of sunrise passed, it was turning more ordinary by the second.

”What’re we gonna do if we catch something?”

”Throw it back out, of course.”

”We’re not eating it?”

”Why would we do that?”

Too lovely weather, too mind-blowing sex.

”I always feel so close to God out here,” Navid said as the sunrise became history.

Too blue eyes. ”Yeah?”

Navid hummed. ”Once you leave the city behind, He’s everywhere.”

”So God’s left the cities?”

”No, He’s there, too. Just in a different way.”

”Not in Vegas,” Kent said, shifting his weight from one foot to another. ”Sin City. Worst of the worst.”

”We’re sodomising on the regular,” Navid countered, as if that was a completely normal fucking thing to say. ”I feel no further from God inside of you.”

A snort crept its way up Kent’s throat, and he let it emerge. ”Good for you.”

“You were Catholic once, weren’t you? You must feel it, too.”

At that, Kent outright laughed. ”Bullshit.”

”Is it?”

Ignoring Navid’s eyes on him, Kent looked out at the water again. Another nice day, undoubtedly. Gentle waves and chirping birds. The Spicers would be up soon, touching and laughing and being as in love as they were at seventeen. ”I know bullshit when I hear it. And that was a whole truckload of it.”

”If you say so.”

“I do.”

Kent closed his eyes. A dull ache had trailed its way from them to the back of his head since he woke up, increasingly difficult to ignore. Painful in the sunlight.

“Do you need to go inside?”

Actual worry, and something uncurled in the pit of Kent’s stomach, only to coil itself tighter. Relaxing the muscles in his face and shoulders, he shook his head. “I’m good.”

*

Kent’s stomach hit the counter, knocked the air in his lungs clean out. Before he could move, Navid’s hand settled on his back, soothing for just a moment, apologetic, just as swiftly as rough as when it had pushed him down in the first place. There was a mouth on Kent’s neck, warm and scruffy and definitely going to leave a mark, and he had to bite down a moan. No fucking sounds, not this time. Not with the hand pressing into his side, leaving marks that wouldn’t fade for days.

It wasn’t often he got like this, impossible to tell beforehand, and Kent could drown in it.

The sound of a cap being popped off momentarily drew Kent back into reality, but he was gone again as soon as his trousers were pushed down to mid-thigh and a finger edged its way into him, inch by aching inch.

”Just relax,” Navid whispered into his nape and left a searing hot kiss in their wake.

”Easy for you to say,” died on Kent’s tongue as the finger inside of him twisted. Instead, he grinned against the wooden counter pressing into his cheek, bit his tongue as another was added, rough and impatient. Not a fucking sound.

He lasted until a third finger twisted inside of him with the other two. The moan was bit-off, desperate, embarrassing in any other situation, in the beginning of their time together, but that was a month ago. A lifetime. For now, there was a tongue on his neck, licking a stripe to his ear before nibbling the shell lightly, and Kent’s nails were going to leave marks in the wood. The only reminder that he was ever there.

June 26th, the calendar in the corner of his eye read. Yellow and outmoded and hung on the fridge.

Three years to the date.

Emptiness filled Kent’s entire body as Navid left him, an involuntary shudder that pushed him upwards, but a hand on his back pushed him back down. Caressed his cheek. The sound of a zipper going down tore through the silence of their ragged breaths, and Kent grabbed the hand. ”If y’wanna fuck me, use a fucking condom.”

A soft swear followed, but as did the sound of something ripping, and Kent grinned, turned it to a grimace as Navid pushed inside of him. A hand came down on his lower back, pressed him further down, another wrapped around him, and Kent arched into the touch. Dug his nails deeper into the wood. There were stars behind his eyes, flashes of blue eyes and stubble against his neck and soft groans in impenetrable silence. Fingers carding through his hair before tightening in a fist, forcing his head back in a drawn-out gasp and tears stinging behind his eyes.

Rough, hurried, nothing like what they usually did. Over way too fucking soon.

Navid pulled out with a soft sound, still steadying himself on the counter. Not quite trusting his legs, either, Kent pushed himself up by the elbows and was met by a kiss as he turned around. Soft, so unlike the roughness that had proceeded it, the touches, too, but Kent still let out a hiss as Navid’s thumb ran over a bruise on his hipbone.

”Sorry,” Navid whispered, and Kent licked it out of his mouth. Excuses weren’t worth shit.

As the other times, they ended up in bed, clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor. Navid’s arm was around Kent’s shoulders, warm and fuzzy against his skin, hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. Lips moving against his like kissing was the reason they’d been crafted in the first place.

They parted, and Kent’s mouth felt cold. He warmed it back up in the crook of Navid’s neck, pressed a small kiss to where stubble turned to smooth skin.

”We fuck until we feel lonely again,” Navid sighed into the beginning darkness. Hours Kent hadn’t noticed.

”What?”

”You and I. We fuck until we feel lonely and need each other again.”

Sometimes Kent wondered if Navid was okay. Then he remembered he probably wasn’t. “How’s the album coming along?”

“I’m still trying to understand her.”

“Why she killed herself?”

“No,” Navid said, with more conviction than Kent had ever heard from him. ”I’m trying to understand what went on while she lived. Piece some kind of picture together. Except I can’t find the edges to start.”

”Then make the picture from a lot of small pictures,” Kent suggested. Pressed a kiss to his jaw. Felt the skin on his lips rupture, the way it had the time Jack had bitten his lip in the rink after the Memorial Cup final.

”Like a mural.” Navid smiled. ”Forming something that might make sense if you look at it from far enough away. Which means I’ll never see it, but someone else might make sense of the chaos.” He exhaled. ”Perhaps that’s the only way you can ever understand someone you love. Through small pieces and the eyes of someone else.”

Kent’s chest felt cold. He rolled onto his back. ”You’re a real fucking poet, aren’tcha?”

”Singer/songwriter. Not that different.”

”Maybe not fifty years ago. Now, though … ”

”I’m not that old.”

”No, ’course not. You’re what, thirty?”

”Thirty-six,” Navid replied, the hint of a smile playing at the edge of his lips. ”Thirty-seven tomorrow.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re holding up good, lemme tell ya.”

”I have tried to live a healthy life.”

”Or you just found the fountain of youth. No shame in that.”

”I have no such thing. I just don’t smoke. And I try to keep fit.”

A raised eyebrow, and Kent kissed him. Not to shut him up, nor out of envy. Nor love, or anything stupid like that. Just a kiss, like any other they’d shared. And like those, Navid responded without missing a beat, angling his head and sliding a hand through Kent’s sex-mussed hair.

No fucking wonder he was such a good kisser, Kent thought to himself as he swung a leg over his hips to settle on top of him. He’d probably been practising since Kent was born.

A hand settled on his hip, gentle and warm and with calloused fingertips. Blue eyes and evening stubble.

It took a little work, much less than before but still far too long before Kent had Navid inside him again, rocking down slowly as he got used to the stretch. In his thighs, too, but he was a fucking hockey player. A little lactic acid had never fucking stopped him.

There was no rhythm at first, too much novelty and discovery, but Navid’s fingers dug into his thighs, and his eyes rolled back, so he was doing something right, at least. Something good once he found the right angle.

It wasn’t pretty, wasn’t soft, wasn’t anything like what had happened earlier, but it was good.

Fun.

He came with a cry, and Navid’s hand stuttering on him, kept himself up through willpower alone and hands on the bed frame. Fell down with the feeling of a three-period game drying up in his muscles and enveloping the bones underneath. Never burrowing, never settling.

And Navid kissed him, and Kent kissed back.

*

There had been no plan for how long he’d stay. How long he was welcome. One day it was early June, the next fireworks lit up the sky in colours that shouldn’t exist but did, and Kent was twenty-two years old.

Navid, still fifteen years older, still a New Yorker, still in a way a stranger, pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear, and Kent moved it to his mouth. It was getting cold out on the porch, cold and dark, and for a long second, until the last lights left the sky terrifying in its enormity and loneliness, Kent wished he could stop time in its tracks.

Six weeks this time.

And it wasn’t love, but it was something. Not like back then, but everything had been so different back then. They’d been kids, the both of them. Weren’t anymore.

“I’ll miss you,” Navid told him, and it was the truth.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Kent said, and the truth turned him inside out. Left him raw and bloody in the moonlight. Even if it stayed unspoken.

“Visit me, if you ever come by New York.”

“I will.”

Above, a last firework went off, a dying breath well past midnight, and Kent exhaled with it. Kissed Navid. Felt the stubble on his cheeks and the calloused fingertips grazing his thighs. Blue eyes.

His head hurt.

-/ \\-

The party was four days late, but judging by the intake of alcohol, no one minded.

”Fuckin’ timin’ y’have, Parse,” Carly slurred as a fountain started up in the distance. The closest they were going to get to fireworks. ”Well fuckin’ done, cap.”

Kent took a swig of beer, let more fall back into the can than down his throat. ”Whaddaya mean?”

”The lockout, bro.” Carly patted his chest with a large, warm hand, but Kent barely noticed.

”What lockout?”

”Dude, where’ve ya been this summer? There’s gonna be a lockout, man, a league-fuckin’-wide lockout, unless those fuckers get their shit together’n figure somethin’ out.” He downed the rest of his own beer. Burped. ”Which ain’t gonna happen.”

That explained the wild abandon. ”When will the decision be made?”

Carly shrugged. ”Who knows, man. Who fuckin’ knows with those bastards.”

Silence fell. Perfect for a couple of fireworks to sweep in, but none came. Obviously.

A lockout. Front office motherfuckers and unions that wouldn’t let them do their fucking jobs. The 2004/05 season all over again, time they’d all worked so hard for thrown into the fucking garbage.

If he’d even be allowed to play.

”But seriously, where were ya this summer?” Carly grinned, a flush high on his cheekbones and a wet glint to his eyes.

Kent smirked. Worrying would have to wait. “Where do ya think?”

The grin widened, stretched to impossible lengths as Carly’s hand came down on Kent’s shoulder and nearly sent him toppling onto the ground. ”You sly fucking _dog_ , Parser! Ain’t even lettin’ a concussion stop ya!”

With a shrug, Kent brought the beer to his lips again. “Not every day I get to be with her longer than just a night.”

“Shit.” Carly laughed, silently, loud. “You’re in love, aren’t ya?”

Blue eyes and soft words. Sad eyes. “Fuck off. She’s a good fucking lay’s all. Flexible.”

“Sure.” Another snort, another punch to his shoulder. “I’m sure she is.”

And Kent punched him back, ignored the pressure behind his eyes and pretended to drink some more beer. Relished the feeling of an arm around his shoulders. Nothing like the safety of June, but safer than he’d been in years.

-/ \\-

_The first time Kent stepped onto a sheen on ice, he fell flat onto his face. The impact was hard, nothing like he’d expected, and so he started to cry. Instantly, his Ma was at his side, helping him up to sit before pulling him against her chest, soothing words flowing like the honey she dripped from an odd, round stick into her tea._

_”My small indulgence,” she winked at Kent who laughed as she took the first sip, slurping loudly. The memory was nice, something warm and soft beneath the hard coldness of the ice he could still feel on his cheek._

_”Don’t coddle ’im so much, Sarah,” a man with eyes Kent never quite knew how to colour when drawing interrupted. Perhaps that was why his head always ended up a stark black mess on near-ripped paper. His hand came to grab Kent’s shoulder, pulling him out of the embrace of his mother and back down on the ice. ”He needs to learn to walk it off.”_

_”He’s_ four _,” Sarah Parson responded in a voice as cold as the ice beneath their feet. ”And he’s shocked. He won’t cry once he’s gotten used to it.”_

_”Then let ’im without havin’ ’im hold onto your skirts the whole time!” the man hissed back. Kent scooted himself back into the warm embrace of his Ma, buried his face in her coat. She smelled of a fruit he hadn’t yet learned to name, sweet and warm and safe._

_The arms around him shifted as his Ma turned to look at him. ”Do ya wanna try again, Ken? You can hold my hand if ya want.”_

_Thinking it over, Kent nodded, wiped the leftover tears off his cheek with a gloved hand, the other coming to grasp his Ma’s. She gave him a quick squeeze and a smile that could melt the entire rink._

_Kent sniffed. ”Promise y’won’t let go?”_

_His Ma’s smile didn’t as much as flicker. ”Never. Not until you’re ready.”_

_Behind her, the man rolled his eyes, but Kent resolutely paid him no mind. Ma always said not to when he got like that._

-/ \\-

_You have twelve missed calls_

”Hey Parser, it’s Swoops. We’re out, in case you didn’t hear. It sucks, the boys’re all down, but … yeah, there wasn’t anything we could do. We did our best. All that shit. I hope the concussion’s doing better - um, that you’re doing better, I mean. Did you hear about the new NBA team in Vegas? The Golden Knights? I’m gonna go take a look at some point, you’re welcome to join in. But no rush, get your head back together first. Say hi to your girlfriend from me. Bye.”

”Parson, this is Henri. Call me back when you hear this.”

“Kent? It’s Ma, I just wanted to hear if you were okay. Concussions suck. Your agent called - don’t worry, I won’t show up without an invitation - but this is mine for you to come by if you need to. Take care of yourself, sweetie. And call me back when you can. I love you.”

”I told you to call me back. I’ll be at your apartment in half an hour. You better not be dead.”

”Jesus, pick up your phone, will you? One thing I forgot to tell you when I was there, do not go to Canada. You know what I mean. Just focus on getting yourself back on your feet.”

“Hey, Ken, it’s me again. We – I haven’t seen you much in the media lately. You’re in New York, right? With your, with your – uh, that ballerina. Is she looking after you? Or is someone else? I can drive up, if you’d like. Just give me a call. I love you.”

“Parson, you’ve been gone for a fucking month, I really hope for your sake you’re just lying low somewhere. I don’t care where, I don’t care with whom, just don’t get into any fucking trouble, alright? We’re dealing with enough here as it is - PR’s a fucking nightmare right now, I don’t need you adding some stupid shit to that. And if you’re with Chiyo, can you tell her – nevermind. Don’t do anything stupid.”

”Ken, you’re startin’ to worry me here. Y’don’t have to call me, just tweet or something? I – we’re fucking worried aboutcha, with the concussion and … we’re worried. I love you.”

”Hello Mr. Parson, this is Dr. McAvoy. I’m sorry I missed your call earlier. I’ve got some time on the twenty-first, one thirty PM, is that soon enough? And try not to worry too much, we’ll figure out what’s wrong. Look after yourself in the meantime, alright? See you soon.”

*

The door shut with a quiet click, loud in the painful silence of the apartment. Kent’s steps echoed through the hallway, squeaked at the turn of a corner, quieted once more in the vastness of the living room. On the couch, new and quiet and beige for some fucking reason, Kent buried his head in his hands, inhaled, exhaled, forced his legs to keep still. The headache he’d woken up with had moved to his throat. A good brandy could push it down, he knew, something strong and potent without too much bitterness that he wasn’t fucking allowed to drink for a long fucking time still.

With another shaky exhale, Kent stood back up, shook out his limbs, walked the length of the living room. Breathed.

He was going to be alright. Lots of guys had come back from concussions. It had only been two months, with a few more he’d be alright again. Besides, the lockout was happening, there was no doubt about that now, he’d have the time to recover before going back on the ice. Everything would be alright. He was Kent fucking Parson, he was fucking invincible. He’d be alright.

On the coffee table, some glass shit he couldn’t remember buying, his phone started buzzing.

Kent exhaled again. Swallowed. ”What?”

”What did the doctor say.”

No hello. No ’how are you doing’. Never fucking was.

”Possible PCS. I’ll have to come back for a brain scan, make sure it’s nothing else, but … ”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Harrison sighed. ”Well, it’s not a surprise. No more parties, you hear? And don’t go off the grid like you did in June, don’t fucking do whatever the _hell_ it was you and your girl got up to in June, now you only do what your doctor tells you to, is that understood?”

Kent blinked. ”Yes.”

”You’re lucky there’s a lockout.”

”I know.”

”No one knows how long it’s going to last, but – are you planning on staying in Vegas? Or going back to your girlfriend?”

“I don’t know.”

There was a beat of silence. “If you are, the Islanders are working on a kid charity, they’ve got some Rangers involved, too, and it wouldn’t hurt having you there. Think about it, at least. Check it with your doctor. And if you go, keep calling me, or someone else from the front office if you can’t reach me. Don’t go off the grid again.”

”Gotcha.”

”Good. You know the drill, rest, eat, drink lots of water, listen to your doctor. Try and practice when you can. Take care, kid.”

”You, too,” Kent said to the beep of an ended call. Looked out at the city stretched out below. Neon lights and casinos and endless cars.

New York.

It was an odd thing, the couple of times he’d done it, walking into the rink in the morning or afternoon and finding no one. Empty rink, empty dressing room, empty cafeteria. Even during the off-season, someone or other would usually be there, a vet who’d ended the season bad and tried to shoot away the bad taste lingering in the back of his throat, or a rookie fearing he wouldn’t make the roster. Always someone he could nod a hello to, scrimmage with, or just ignore, because sometimes you just wanted to be alone on the ice with your thoughts. Or without.

And when off-season ended, the guys always came back, filled up the building with their shit and their noise, and Kent would pull up his smirk and pull down his cap and play captain. Every year.

Except this one. This one, Kent could step onto the ice whenever he fucking felt like it, shoot at whatever fucking goal he wanted, just skate around, lay down on the ice and stare into the ceiling. Pretend his balance wasn’t off, because PCS was the worst fucking letters anyone could stick to his jersey, and there was no tearing out the stitches. They would fall out on their own, and all he could do was wait. Figure out if he wanted to do it on his own.

-/ \\-

_”But I don’t wanna!” Kent whined, clinging to his Ma’s hand for dear life._

_Sarah Parson gave an apologetic smile to the woman behind the desk before crouching down in front of her son, brushing a lock of long blonde hair out of her eyes and putting on her mom-face. ”Kent, you’re a big boy now, and I’m really busy working, so you have to be on your own for a bit. I know it’s tough but trust me, in no time you’ll be having so much more fun here than you’d have with me.”_

_The back of Kent’s eyes were burning but the tears didn’t fall, no matter how much he wanted to let them. Big boys didn’t cry, that’s what his Pa always said, and Kent was a big boy now. His Ma said that all the time, so it had to be true. ”But I have fun with_ you _! And what if you forget I’m here?”_

_Sarah Parson glanced briefly at the woman at the desk pretending not to listen in. She always did that whenever Kent said something difficult, as if the other grown-ups were going to think she was bad and not him. Licking her lips, she grasped his smaller hands in hers and ran her thumb over the skin just beneath his knuckles. ”Ken, baby, I could never, ever forget you, okay? I’ll always come back for you, no matter what, ’cause that’s what mothers do when they love their kids.” She kissed his forehead. ”And I love you. So, so much.”_

_“Pa didn’t come back.”_

_Something flashed across his Ma’s face, something so raw and hurting it made tears prickle in his eyes he had to fight to keep in. He hadn’t meant it like that, and she knew it, pulled him in for a hug and stroked his hair. She’d cried so much the day he put the dog tags around Kent’s neck and closed the door behind him. Kent hadn’t._

_But now, two months later, he sniffed and threw his arms around her neck. If a tear rolled into her hair, she didn’t point it out, just placed a hand on his back, warm and gentle and comforting. ”Can you promise me you’ll be a good boy, then? Do what the coach says and be nice to the other kids?”_

_He nodded._

_”Pinky swear?”_

_Another nod, and her pink-lacquered pinky finger curled around his. Another soft kiss was pressed onto his forehead._

_”Good.”_

_With another sniff, Kent let go, and she looked proud. Smiled even as her own eyes glinted._

_Less than fifteen minutes later, Kent stepped onto the ice in second-hand skates, too-large gear and with a stick in his hands he had no idea how to hold. Around him were mostly other boys, a girl here and there, all his age, all looking as nervous as he felt. Without thinking, Kent tightened his hold on the stick. It was a comforting presence, hard and large and powerful._

_Ten minutes later, he used it to hit the first puck of his life. It only went a couple of feet but still left him standing on the ice with a feeling in his gut that would follow him for the rest of his life._

_Before the hour had passed, the first goal of many found him breathing hard and with an irrepressible smile cracking his face in two. One day, that smile would turn to a boy with dark hair and sad, blue eyes, but not for another ten years. For now, he was six years old and hockey had lodged itself in his chest like a piece he hadn’t known was missing._

-/ \\-

04.51 PM. From ’Troy’

_[Image: Jeff Troy with his arm around a gorgeous woman in a large knitted toque, both smiling brightly. In the background, the Swiss Alps stand proud and fully covered in snow.]_

04.58 PM. To ’Troy’

_not wasting time r u_

04.59 PM. From ’Troy’

_Nope!_

_The food here’s amazing. I might just stay here forever._

04.59 PM. To ’Troy’

_u sure it aint just the company_

04.59pm. From ’Troy’

_;)_

_Like you’re any better. Say hi to Chiyo from me :D_

*

Their hands didn’t touch as they walked, but it was close. Half an inch, a quarter, so near an accidental brush it made the hair on Kent’s exposed forearms stand up. Exciting in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager and Jack had fallen asleep on his shoulder on the team bus.

“And you’re sure you’re okay to do this?”

Kent smiled, glanced at the rink now in sight. Back at Navid’s adorable frown just above his nose. “I’m fine, babe. Wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t, I promise.”

“You had a headache yesterday.”

“I have a headache right now. But it’s not so bad, and it’s just a couplea kids, so stop worrying, yeah? Bury yourself in work ‘til I get back. I’ll make it worthwhile.”

Navid smiled, sweet and inconspicuous. If you didn’t know what to look for. “You always do.”

The tiniest hint of sadness, and Kent bumped their shoulders together. Let it linger for just a moment. “You’re gonna visit your sister, aren’tcha?”

“It wouldn’t be right to let Persephone run out of flowers.”

“It wouldn’t.” They stopped just off the entrance of the rink. No noise, not yet, far too many eyes. “I’d kiss you if I could.”

“I know.”

But they couldn’t, and Kent pulled him in for a hug instead. Breathed in his aftershave and slapped his back and pretended they hadn’t woken up next to each other that morning. Old routines. Dark stubble and sleep-laced blue eyes.

Training wasn’t quite started yet, a couple of boys running each other back and forth on the ice, a small handful of men Kent almost couldn’t recognise out of gear clustered near the entrance of the dressing room. Two in gear, one still in civilian clothing. Kent threw a smirk on his face, a relaxed set to his shoulders, and walked over.

“Good to see you upright,” Torres greeted, and Kent gave him the finger before bumping the other guys’ fists.

“Thanks for letting me in.”

“Front office didn’t feel like we could do this without an actual New Yorker,” Matthews said, eyes as serious as his fists. The second concussion in the room. Not the second for him.

“Not ours, either,” Bjørnholt said. Rangers, D-man, a February trade. Formerly Edmonton. Formerly Oslo.

“Thank Roddy next time you play ‘im, then. With your fists, preferably.”

Torres laughed, bellowed in the large, empty space. Or, not quite empty. On the other end of the rink, a couple of pre-pubescent boys almost hidden in gear looked over, and Kent was hit with a sense of déjà vu so intense he almost threw up.

“So what’s the plan? Are we coaching, are we writing autographs, are we showing off, what’re the suits expecting?”

“Little bit of everything, I think,” Torres said. Next to him, Matthews’ scowl deepened. “We’ve got the coach of a midget’s team coming in, but who fucking knows, really.”

“Shit, good for you, perhaps you can learn how to do proper backhand shots now.”

The fist on his shoulder punched out a laugh, and Kent hit back.

“Don’t hit him too hard, Tori, he’s too pretty.”

Kent hitched his duffel bag up his shoulder. “Hit me all y’want, but save it for the ice, yeah? And remember to be a good influence on the kids. Can’t have their parents come complaining.”

“Parser’s right, go change,” Matthews said, quiet as ever. “We’re starting soon.”

“Gotcha, cap,” Kent saluted.

“You’ve been captain longer than I have.”

But Kent was already off to the dressing room, Bjørnholt just behind him. They dumped their bags in opposite stalls, common courtesy, and sent each other an amused glance as the kids started trickling in, eyes widening comically at the sight of two shirtless NHL-players.

“Don’t tie your pads too tight,” Kent reminded them and pulled his jersey over his head. Still black, still Aces. No uniformity. They could play together without it.

“Did you see their faces?” Bjørnholt whispered on their way out, and Kent nodded.

“Better enjoy it. We’ll be old news by next week.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. ‘s how my rookies react, anyway.”

“I don’t know, perhaps it’s just you who’s difficult to respect.”

With grin and a hit to Bjørnholt’s heavily padded arm, Kent stepped onto the ice. Raised his voice. “Hey, boys, wanna play some scrimmage before coach gets here?”

“We can’t just - “

“Sure we can. Come on, who wanna play with Bear, and who wanna play with me?”

“I’m with Parser,” Torres said, dragging Mats along behind him. Splitting up, as did the kids stepping out of the dressing room and joining in, one after the other, unfair to fair. Not that a hundred-pound ten year-old in second-hand gear made much of a dent. Second-hand only until the next day, Kent knew, but there was no spoiling the surprise. Not as the puck dropped again, and a kid pushed him into the boards to keep him from going after it. Barely any weight, so much different from what he was used to, but he played along. Pushed back only as much as the kid could still keep him pinned. As much as his balance allowed.

“Great technique,” he whispered as the puck came loose and he did as well, grinned at the smile widening on the kid’s face. The innocent fun that hockey could still be, and he snatched the puck from Mats’ stick to pass to a kid with a port-wine stain and chubby cheeks who one-timed it past a kid in pads that made him look twice his actual size. A beautiful goal, wobbly at the edges and without finesse, but there was no need for that. Not yet.

The kid moved in for a celly, and Kent gave him a side-hug, a noogie through the helmet. No need for a few more months. And years.

By the time he noticed the man with his forearms on the railing, the score was 4-5, and the goalies were saving more by the second. Kent would eat his own pads if they couldn’t save at least one of Bjørnholt’s shots by November.

Especially if Dennis Walker got his hands on them, and it sure fucking looked like he would. Older, although he was. Greyer. Thinner. A bushy eyebrow raised at him, an imperceptible nod. A hug so like the one he’d given Navid only half an hour earlier that it made bile rise in his throat for a second time that day.

“NYC Cyclones,” he explained with a steadfast smirk. “2003-2006. Taught me everything I know. Listen to him and you’ll be in the NHL before y’know it.”

“Parse knows what he’s talking about,” coach Walker said, eyes moving between the kids, no doubt taking in every strength and weakness he’d seen on the ice and cross-referencing it with what he could see now. Height and weight, posture and confidence. Motivation and ambition. Every dirty little secret. “Suicides to start, we’ll do passin’ drills after that. And save your energy, we’re here all afternoon. Pros, too, I’m expectin’ ya to lead by example. Parse and Mats, take it easy, I don’t fancy a lawsuit.”

“Aye-aye, coach,” Matthews deadpanned, and Kent snickered. Saluted along with Torres and lead the drills with Bjørnholt.

Rinks weren’t meant to be empty.

-/ \\-

_The words were sharp and familiar, stung the rest of the day and in the glares Sister Frances sent him across the school yard. Stung as he placed the thumb tacks on her chair and in the way she gripped his arm to drag him to the principal. Behind them, the other kids laughed, and Kent sent them one last grin before disappearing around the corner. Didn’t let it fall until then._

_His Ma sighed when he came home, an hour late from detention and with a phone call in the back of her mind she’d received more times than were worth counting since he’d started school._

_“You can’t keep doing that,” she sighed, looking far more like thirty-six than twenty-six. On the other side of the kitchen table, her friend Marianne smiled empathetically. There was a blood stain on her scrubs. She didn’t seem to notice._

_“They’re the ones telling me I’m wrong!” Kent countered. Resisted the urge to fold his arms in front of his chest._

_Sarah Parson sighed. “They’re old-fashioned, Ken, they … it’s only for three more years, I promise. Try and think of it like practice, yeah? Work your right hand to be as good as your left.”_

_“Why do I have to?” Too loud, and he knew he was making a scene, with the way his Ma and Marianne glanced at each other, but he didn’t care. “Why can’t I just do what feels right?”_

_“It_ is _right,” his Ma said. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s just … they’re old-fashioned. Best thing to do is try and ignore them, yeah? And imagine how awesome it’d be to be able to use both of your hands.”_

_“Sister Frances called you a whore.”_

_Marianne’s eyes widened, but his Ma’s closed. “She called me that when she was my teacher, too. And you know what I did? I ignored her. And I’m better off for it.”_

_There was no winning, and so Kent left the kitchen, slammed the door behind him and went to his room. Pretended to._

_”Nine years old and already rebelling,” Sarah moaned. ”Fuck, I’m doing my best here, and he - Lord help me when he becomes a teenager.“_

_Marianne smiled. ”That boy sure does remind me of someone.”_

_Sarah Parson looked up at that, face twisting into something that might have been concern. Or fear. ”Don’t start with that again, Mary. He’s nothing like me.”_

_Raising her thin, almost invisible eyebrows, Marianne took a sip of her tea. ”Hopefully nothing like his Pa, either.”_

_Kent left before he could hear his mother’s response. Practice started in half an hour. There was nothing wrong with being early. And there was nothing wrong with him. He knew that, even if the nuns with their habits and wimples and up-turned noses didn’t._

_His left hand was his strength. The shots he was able to make, above shoulders and beneath legs of goalies and D-men and anyone daring to get in his way. On the ice, and on the road to the NHL. Because that was where he was going, out of Brooklyn and out of New York and into the waiting arms of the world. Even if he was the only one to know it yet._

_But they’d realise soon enough, he knew. Because he was Kent fucking Parson, and he was exactly how he needed to be._

-/ \\-

The building looked more run-down than he remembered. Dark facade, heavy doors, a lift that had been fixed since he’d last seen it. Still more like Samwell University than the backstreets in Vegas Kent had never dared to go down. Used. Loved.

“Prime real estate,” the agent he’d called on a whim told him, opened door after door and elegantly side-stepped the creaking hallway separating the bedrooms, the leaky shower tub, the spot on the kitchen wall where a bottle had been thrown and cracked into a thousand tiny pieces. “Long-time tenants for the past twenty years, shopping opportunities only two minutes away, the tube down the block. Perfect for a couple, or the new family, or to get yourself started in the Big Apple.”

A perfect speech, and Kent looked around the kitchen. The old fridge with the scratch on the door, the breakfast nook with chairs that didn’t match and a make-shift seat in the window. “Cool. What’s the price?”

“The apartment’s rent-controlled, they all are in this - “

“No, how much does it cost to buy.”

The agent frowned, and Kent couldn’t blame her. “Buy?”

It was a stupid idea, but it was one now lodged in his throat and carved into his bones. “Yes, buy. How much.”

“I – I’m gonna have to make a call about that.”

“Cool.” Kent sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. “I’ll wait.”

*

“You know, when I told you it was okay to be spontaneous sometimes, I didn’t mean for you to buy an apartment,” Navid said around a mouthful of Chinese food. Cross-legged on the floor, basketball shorts riding up his thighs, and Kent let himself look. Ate his own chicken and broccoli.

“Thought it was nice to have.”

“Insurance is nice to have. A tuxedo’s nice to have. An apartment?”

Kent shrugged. “I’m a hockey player. I can’t just flex with watches.”

“You’re trying.”

“Sure am.”

Navid smiled, and Kent did, too. They ate in silence, placed the dishes in the sink for later as Kent ran his fingers across the elastic band of Navid’s shorts and slipped beneath his shirt onto searing hot skin.

The kiss started out soft, didn’t stay that way, and before long, Navid was on his back in the living room, breath hitching with every move of Kent’s hips. Defiling the floor, and Kent waited for a feeling of something wrong to settle in, but nothing did. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

Tangling his fingers in Navid’s on his hips, Kent allowed them to guide his rhythm, their rhythm, the rhythm of another man moving inside of him, and that was something he was never going to get used to. Not in a million years, and perhaps that was the beauty in it. Because reality wasn’t, too much sweat and pre-come and condoms and lube, but neither were they, and there was no need for it. In its stead, there was heat, warmth and flames and burning embers erupting, and Kent cried out, steadied himself on the floor and in Navid’s hands as he arched upwards, uncoordinated and inelegant. His breath was hot on Kent’s neck, a burning mark all but matching the ones on his hips, and nothing else mattered. Nothing in the entire fucking world.

They stayed in each other’s arms afterwards, sweat-soaked and sated and exhausted. The hair on Navid’s chest was slippery, and Kent ran his fingers through it, rested his head on top of his beating heart. Steady and strong.

“Why this apartment?” Navid whispered into something that would never be silence. Not with the walls as thin as they were.

Kent considered lying. Always did. “I grew up here.”

“In New York, I know, but - “

“No, here. We moved when I was eleven. Just before Christmas.”

Navid opened his mouth, but Kent surged upwards and kissed the question off his tongue, ran his fingers through sweat-soaked curls and hummed as Navid’s hands moved to his back. Covered him in warmth and the safety of summer. The time when time no longer existed, until it did.

They parted again in the morning as the last pink of sunrise became day, Navid with flowers bought in the tiny shop Kent still knew the name of the owner of, and he with a duffel bag. Routines that would outlast them, and they both knew it.

-/ \\-

_”The world’s not a fair place,” Sarah Parson told her son the day his father left. Repeated it five years later when she came home with tears in her eyes and in streaks down her dirty cheeks, the smell of exhaustion and sweat and death in her clothes when she hugged him tight._

_Lessons that day had been cut short, replaced by prayers after prayers after prayers, and no one saying why, not until Kent came home to an empty apartment and turned on the TV._

_”We just have to find the beauty in the little things,” his Ma continued, once more wiping her eyes and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Left after a meal and a couple hours of sleep, a kind word to the neighbour agreeing to look after him. She didn’t come home again for almost three days, and Kent spent them in the rink, slamming puck after puck into the net and ignoring the eyes on his back._

_The school called, but there was no one to pick up. Not until the dust had settled and all that was left was the grief. The conversation was brief, exhausted words and streaky blonde hair, and Kent never returned to that school._

_The new one was larger, dirtier, rougher, but the teachers were men, too, no one wore habits, and no one batted an eye when he picked up his pencil with his left hand. Fists were harder there, words even sharper, but Kent shrugged them all off, grinned and laughed and joked, and when that didn’t work, he ran. Four years, and he was never caught once._

-/ \\-

The bar was almost empty, hidden in a corner just off Brooklyn as it was. Not quite a sports bar, not quite a cop bar, a perfect blend that left little space for those who didn’t look the part.

“To being old and boring,” Torres said and raised his beer.

“Speak for yourself,” Kent said, still hit their glasses together.

“Just wait,” Matthews said. “Once the kids start coming you’ll be old and boring before you can as much as blink.”

“And that is why being single is best,” Bjørnholt said.

“You just can’t get laid,” Kent shot back. “Shit, remember that line you pulled on that waitress last week? I haven’t seen pathetic like that since I was in the Q.”

The words froze in his throat, but no one noticed, no one commented. No one cared. Not anymore.

“Yeah, I heard you were real fucking pathetic with the ladies before you met that ballerina of yours,” Torres said.

Kent shrugged. “Y’live and y’learn.”

“Or she’s blind.”

“Bro, she’s a fucking ballerina, she’d fall down the fucking stage.”

“Not if you knock her up, she won’t.”

“That makes no fucking – fuck, Tori, one kid and y’can’t think about anything else.”

“Light of my life,” Torres shrugged, no hint of shame in his voice. “Right, Mats?”

Matthews nodded.

“So you guys don’t regret not going abroad?” Bjørnholt asked.

“Fuck no. You can’t miss the birth of your first child. Or third,” Torres added with a nod at Matthews. “That shit’s magical.”

“Two months ago, right? Explains why you’re in such bad shape.”

“Like you’re any better.”

“Hey, I got PCS. Mats and I’re excused. Aren’t we?”

Matthews nodded. “Concussion and a new baby? Worst fucking cocktail in the world.”

“But hella worth it.”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re so full of bad excuses,” Bjørnholt said. “Just admit you’re losing touch. I’ll be better than you both before the lockout is over.”

Both.

“You’ll need the luck of the devil for that. Or just make a pact with ‘im. Your GM sure does look like he needs the action.”

“That was how you got onto the Rangers in the first place, wasn’t it?” Torres asked, grin a little too wide, and another bout of déjà vu shot through Kent’s body. But no bile. No need to throw up. Barely even a headache. “Fucking your way to the top, not a bad move. Gotta give you that.”

Matthews snickered, as did Kent. And Bjørnholt himself. “We can’t all get in on diversity clauses.”

Torres snorted, almost spilled his beer onto the table, and Kent had some of his own before it could fall victim to his elbows, too. A little too loud, but he wasn’t one to talk.

Not his headache. He had his own. Present at night as Navid sucked him off, present in the morning at his own practice, gentler than it had been just two weeks before, probably gone within the next month if he was careful, but … 

The puck flew through the air, landed in the goal just an inch or so from the right pipe. A couple seconds later, a second hit the exact same spot, then a third, a fourth. Kent changed his angle, the other side of the net, just beneath the top line. One, two, three, four.

He’d considered getting time at the Cyclones’ rink. Even went as far as to the building’s entrance but ultimately decided against it. It wouldn’t be like the apartment in Brooklyn, because not even the apartment in Brooklyn was. A month and a hurricane spent in Vermont had proven that.

The last puck went in, and Kent straightened his back, shifted the stick in his hands and picked up the bucket by his feet. Fifteen minutes were left on the clock before the peewee team would start to trickle in, wide eyes and autographs and a shock each and every time. Fine in moderation. Overwhelming in mass.

At least he knew how to get the pucks in the same place. Easier to clean up. Would be, at least, if his phone hadn’t started to ring halfway through, Britney so unwelcome in the space she suddenly filled it nearly gave Kent whiplash.

”Jesus Christ, Parson, lost your phone in a garbage bin? Or have you been backpacking across the Rocky Mountains trying to find your inner self or something?”

“Mr. Brown,” Kent greeted in turn, forced the surprise in his voice not to show. ”What an honour.”

”No need for niceties, son,” the owner of the Las Vegas Aces replied. ”I was just checking in to hear how you were doing. Concussions are a nasty business. Charity work, too.”

“It’s all good.” Lazy shoulders, lazy smirk. Even if the fucker couldn’t see him. “The kids’re loving what we’re doing, and I’m getting better. Unlike the lockout-situation, from what I can hear.”

A cheap shot, and a hint of irritation crept into Brown’s voice. “We’re doing our best, Parson, you know that. But you think you’ll be ready to play again then?”

”If it keeps going for another month or two, absolutely.”

”Good.”

Relief. Actual fucking relief.

Interesting.

”Get back on your feet. But don’t over-exert yourself, you know how dangerous - ”

”You don’t need to tell me, my girlfriend gives me that speech every fucking day.”

“Clever woman. You guys are in Manhattan, right? Close to the ballet, I hope?”

A toe in the water, and Brown was fully engulfed. Harrison had been, too, and Kent made a mental note to thank Marina Teterya the next time he saw her. “Yeah, a couple streets off.”

“Nice. That’s not far from the Rangers’ rinks, either, is it?”

Kent raised an eyebrow. Kept it out of his voice. “No, it isn’t. I’ve been a coupla times, actually, with Tori and Bear. They upgraded recently, it’s gotten pretty incredible.”

A little too thick, but - “I bet it has. You probably went to a lot of their games as a kid.”

“Not really, I mostly watched on TV. We couldn’t really afford tickets when we lived in Brooklyn. Or Queens, for that matter.”

“No, of course not.” Brown cleared his throat. “Enough of me rambling, you probably have work to get back to. Or that girlfriend of yours. Let me tell you, had I been twenty years younger … “

Kent almost laughed. Marina, the beautiful fucking bitch. “Shit, I’d’ve been in trouble.”

“You flatter me, Parson. We’re looking forward to having you back in Vegas when this is all over. Remember to keep the front office updated, alright?”

”Will do. Take care.”

“You, too, kid. Oh, and check your mail sometime.”

The conversation ended, and Kent took a moment to let the laughter spill that had bottled in his throat. Another to pick up the rest of the pucks and change as quickly as he could, slip out of the back entrance by the dumpsters as the kids started to show up.

He was still smiling when he returned to Navid’s apartment and gave him a quick kiss before settling down on the couch next to him. Checked his mail. Widened his grin even further.

“What is it?”

“The Aces’re offering me a bonus to make sure I stay with them.” Not quite a million, and he might get a no-trade clause out of them, too, if he tried. It would cost some, but security always did.

“They really want to keep you, huh?”

Kent glanced up. “What? Yeah, ‘course they do. I’m their best player.”

“And you’re taking them up on it?”

“I’d be stupid not to.”

The guitar strummed, and Navid hummed with it.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Another strum, and Kent raised his eyebrows, waited for words that didn’t come, and he stood to make himself a sandwich instead. Practice with the kids statred in an hour and a half. He’d need a nap before that, too. And to email Molyneux. But not the Aces, not yet. Not until they’d been sweating for a couple of days.

-/ \\-

_With a flick of the wrist and a quick turn, Kent stole the puck straight from the Bandit’s stick, sent a smirk his way as he shot past. His legs were burning, throat, too, but the goal was coming up, goalie already dropped down on his knees, and the air in his lungs was clearer than any he’d ever breathed. The grin on his face wider than anywhere else._

_He was Kent Parson, fourteen years old and on fucking fire._

_Just ahead, the black-clad D-men were skating up, both bigger and meaner than Kent was beginning to realise he would ever be, but the strength in his legs and the cold in his throat left little place for fear or jealousy. He could skate circles around them, and they knew it. Everyone did these days. Rexy, too, where he shot forward to his right, not quite keeping up but a steady presence ready to support whatever shit Kent was about to unleash._

_A D-man appeared in front of him, and he came to an abrupt halt, stepped to the side just before they could crash. Stumbled, but swung around on one skate, pushing the puck backwards in a fluid move that allowed Rexy to send it back through the air with a neat slapshot completely free from Bandits. It hit the goalie’s glove, bounced, fell just behind the red line._

_Above them, a horn blared, and the Cyclones roared. Rexy lifted his fist into the air, a large grin splitting his face. 4:2. They were going to win, and it was going to be fucking brutal._

_Kent was first at his side, pushing their bodies together in the way he watched the NHL stars do on TV. To his relief, something small fluttering in the pit of his stomach, Rexy returned the hug one-armed, pulling him even closer. A few stray curls were clinging to his forehead from under the helmet, dark brown and close enough for Kent to make out every individual hair. Up close, the smell of soap and hockey gear and sweat was almost overwhelming, and he was still smiling, wide and true and beautiful, and Kent felt something break inside of him. Tiny pieces of something that were never going to come back together and instead fluttered until they threatened to spill out of him. Tear their way out, even if it mean tearing him apart._

_Rexy let go, and a feeling of emptiness took his place. An ache between his legs. A knife in the back he should’ve seen coming._

_He’d always been a late bloomer, all short and skinny and freckles and braces, with laughter matching the other boys’ when voices cracked around girls and tits and pussies. The words would begin to ring true one day, just a little later for him than everyone else, and until they did, he’d keep on laughing. Make sure the other boys didn’t think he was -_

_Whatever it was he might actually fucking be, ’cause Rexy was still smiling, and his heart was still beating for reasons he could no longer blame on the goal, and he wanted him back close. It made sense, he could recognise, but he didn’t want to._

_It wasn’t fucking fair._

_But nothing was, and the game was still going, and Kent pushed his legs past the point of pain to slam another puck in behind the goalie. Hugged his Ma afterwards with an awkwardness that still matched the other boys’._

_That, at least, was still normal. He was still normal. Even if he was a -_

_‘Boys’ played from the old radio in the kitchen when they got home, and Kent turned it up. Glanced at his Ma who was smiling at something on her phone. “Who is it?”_

_Sarah Parson blushed. Straight-up fucking blushed. ”Just someone from work.”_

_“Uh-huh. You sure?”_

_”Yup.”_

_”So it’s not someone you’re … seeing?”_

_An old joke between them, and Sarah Parson huffed. ”’course not, dear, when would I have time for that? But what about you? Any pretty girls y’haven’t told me about?”_

_Something curled into itself in the pit of Kent’s stomach, something that had previously been loose and untethered but would never be again. He smiled. “When would I have time for that?”_

-/ \\-

Sarah Parson-Miller laughed, echoed after a second by her youngest son who made the rest of the room join in. From her seat in Kent’s lap, Beth used the distraction to grab another piece of rib to munch on, and he reached out for a napkin to wipe her face with. Adorable chubby cheeks, a hopeless mess if he wasn’t careful. A dress that wasn’t too pretty, because little girls should be allowed to run, too.

“You’re good with her.”

“Thanks.”

Marianne Somerland smiled and rested her chin in her hand. Made a face at Beth when she looked up. Allowed nostalgia to take over as she focused back on the rib. “Rex was so cute at that age.”

Steady voice, steady hands. “How is he?”

“He’s good. Graduated college this summer, got a job down in Washington. Headhunted.”

“Good for him. Did he get into Columbia?”

“He did, yes. But he didn’t go, he went to this small place in Massachusetts instead.” She smiled, thin and far away. “It wasn’t Ivy League, but it was better for him, I think.”

Kent swallowed. “Good for him.”

“It was, yes. I’m very proud of him. It’s not pro hockey, but he’s happy.”

She grinned, and Kent smiled back. Waited for his skin to break, but it never did. “Vegas isn’t exactly Washington, either. Wouldja mind holding Beth for a second? I think my girlfriend’s calling me.”

Marianne blinked but accepted the kid and included rib. “Of course – and Kent?”

“Yeah?”

She smiled. “Congrats on your mother. Forty’s one hell of an achievement.”

And he smiled back. “Sure is.”

The kitchen was blessedly empty, and Kent sat down on one of the chairs. So much nicer than the ones in his Brooklyn apartment, nothing to the ones in Vegas. In the dining room, another bout of laughter erupted, and he almost smiled, too. Pulled out his phone instead, moments before remembering that Navid didn’t have a phone. Hipster motherfucker that he was. And even if he tried, Jack wasn’t - 

“Are you okay?”

Kent glanced up and slipped his phone back into his pants. “All good.”

Ben frowned, placed the plate in his hand down on the table and sat down with it. “Is it the concussion? Are you nauseous? Dizzy? Is your - “

“I know the symptoms of a fucking concussion, and I’m good. I’m just tired.” A dismissal, but Ben wasn’t taking the hint. The nosy-ass motherfucker. Kent sighed. “My girlfriend and I had a spat before I came here. And she’s not picking up her phone now.”

Instead of softening, Ben’s frown deepened. “Girlfriend?”

Kent’s stomach clenched. “Yeah, girlfriend. And it’s not going great, so if you don’t mind, I’m going back to Ma’s party.”

Ben opened his mouth, but the door shut on his words, and Kent walked back to his seat. Allowed Beth to crawl back into his lap and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Rested his own on top of it as she munched on another rib.

Talks were getting better, rumour had it. Less yelling, more compromises. An end in sight.

And Navid was still quiet when he returned, kissing him welcome but staying on his own side of the bed. “I’m just a ghost to you, aren’t I?”

_Dark hair and blue eyes, stubble burn and worn-out t-shirts and eyes far, far away_. “Of course not.”

Because there were no such things as living ghosts, with beating hearts and expanding lungs. Even if the heart had stopped, and the lungs sucked at their work.

“Am I?” he wanted to ask, but didn’t. Picked up the few things he’d left in Navid’s apartment and moved them to his own instead. Fewer than he’d thought.

On his way out, he threw one last glance at the picture of the woman Navid called his sister hung on the hallway mirror. She’d been beautiful, all dark hair and strong features and eyes a colour he couldn’t quite name. He closed the door.

-/ \\-

_The end of practice was coming up, but Kent made no move to leave. Around him, the other Cyclones came to slow halts, stepped off, but Kent stayed. At the boards, coach Walker didn’t move, either._

_A couple more pucks made it in, new angles every time, exactly where he wanted them to go. As always. The pile in the middle of the ice shrunk until none were left, and Kent was breathing hard, sweat drying on the back of his neck and purpose churning in his veins. Lighting him up._

_And eyes on his back._

_Without thinking too hard about it, he skated up to the boards with the smirk he’d spent hours cultivating in front of the mirror. ”Like whatcha see?”_

_“I do,” coach Walker said without missing a beat, and Kent nearly fell flat on his face. “I’ve never seen anythin’ like it. The Océanics won’t know what hit ‘em.”_

_The smirk made way for a grin, wide and unstoppable as it had been the week before, when the call from Canada had come and his Ma had cried and Ben had taken him out to get new gear. Waved off his promise to pay him back when he was in the NHL. “Thanks, Coach.”_

_“You’ll have to be careful,” Dennis Walker said, and the grin on Kent’s face cracked. Turned up another notch._

_“Whaddaya mean?”_

_With a sigh, the old man rested his arms on the boards. “I don’t have a problem with guys like you. Never did. But where you’re goin’, where that talent’s bringin’ ya, next year and after that, the boys there’re gonna. And if I were you, I’d be real fuckin’ careful. Do ya understand what I’m sayin’?”_

_The grin was gone now, replaced by cold-broken lips and a tightness in the pit of his stomach, familiar and nameless. There were words, too many, and Kent settled for a nod instead. Looked down to hide the flush in his cheeks and the sting of tears in his eyes and the back of his throat._

__Faggot. __

_”Good. I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ ya on TV, kid.”_

_With that, coach Walker turned and left, shoes echoing in the empty rink that suddenly seemed so much darker than it had a moment ago._

_The dressing room was empty when Kent entered, limbs still shaking despite the number of pucks that had hit the back of the net. Exactly where he wanted them, because he was Kent fucking Parson, he was fifteen years old, and he was going to make it. The knowledge was carved into his bones, present in every breath he took and every puck shot. He was going to make it._

_There was no reason to keep his eyes on the bench, no naked chests or strong thighs to look away from, no hands that could easily curl into his fists and break his face and everything he’d worked for, but he still did. A year and three months, the next twenty-odd years._

_Because he was going to make it, no matter how cruel Mother Nature had decided to be._

_By the time he met Jack, the words took a step back. Hidden but never forgotten._

_By the time he entered the NHL, they tasted bitter on his tongue, bitter and rotten and too close to death for him to bear._

_But never enough to stop him._

-/ \\-

“Incoming.”

Chiyo followed his nod, made an annoyed noise in the back of her throat and swiftly emptied her flute. Elegant still, but there was no mistaking it. If you knew what to look for, and the man approaching didn’t seem to. Or didn’t want to.

“May I have this dance?”

With a smile, Chiyo slipped back into the perfect little ballerina and accepted the man’s outstretched hand. Followed him to the floor and kept smiling, even as the man laid his arm around her waist, and as her eyes followed another couple dancing past. Midnight blue suit, sparkling silver dress. Brown eyes meeting green above suited shoulders, and Kent hid a snort in his drink.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Another man, sharp suit and glasses and good hair. Young, for once. Not bad looking. Now that he was single again, and he pushed down the thought. “She is, yeah. I’m a lucky man.”

“You are.” The man smiled, eyes still caught on the back of Chiyo’s dress as if it held the secrets of the universe. “Do you ever fuck her before a show to see if she’ll stumble?”

Sixteen years, and not a muscle moved. “She never stumbles on stage.”

The man laughed, loud and clear, almost attractive. “If I had her, she would.”

“Bro, back off. She’s taken.”

“I know, I know.” Hands in the air, a soothing grin. Just on the right side of teasing. “I’d be careful if I was you, though. A woman who dances like she does has a lot of admirers.”

A nod to the ballroom floor, and Kent followed his eyes. Caught Chiyo’s and smiled. The smile back was perfect, gentle and fun, but her eyes flickered to the man next to Kent, and she twirled in her partner’s arms. New guy. Younger. A lingering kiss pressed to the back of her hand as she excused herself and walked to press a kiss of her own to Kent’s lips. Lingering.

“Mr. Morrison,” she greeted, sweet voice and sweeter smile. Body angled towards Kent and a thin arm around his waist. Almost too much, but - “What a pleasure.”

“Liam,” he corrected, not for the first time, and she smiled, tilted her head and rested it against Kent’s shoulder. “The pleasure’s all mine. It’s such an honour to have you dancing here in New York. Your ankle’s all healed up, I hope? Or is your boyfriend being a little too rough at times?”

Somehow, and it really shouldn’t surprise him, she kept smiling. “All healed. Kent, how is your head?”

“It’s - “ Her hand tightened on his back. “ - a little rough, actually. I was about to sneak off and find somewhere to lie down a little.”

She nodded, perfect sympathy, and pressed a kiss to his jaw. Smiled apologetically. “I think it’s perhaps better we get home. My feet are killing me,” she added in a whisper.

In all the time he’d known her, they’d never stayed anywhere past midnight, and it was none of his business. With a kiss to the top of her head, Kent nodded a farewell to the man and kept his arm around her waist until the door shut behind them and something in her shoulders relaxed.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered into the cool night air, and Chiyo laughed, loud and unladylike. Toed off her flats and walked with them in hand.

“That’s kinda dangerous.”

She shrugged. “I’m wearing stockings. And I’m a ballerina, I’m used to danger.”

Kent hummed. None of his business. “How often do ya have to do shit like this?”

“Maybe eight times a year. More after a hurricane, apparently.” She sighed, and had they been in Montréal, her breath would’ve showed. Would soon in New York, too, but not tonight. Not yet. “You know, I love dancing, I really do, but balls like these … “

“I know.” Love the sport, hate the lies. Keep it up. “Fuck, you’ll never believe what that fucker – Liam, whatever – said to me before you came over.”

“I can imagine. His type is the worst.” One look at his face, and she let out another laugh. “Don’t look so shocked, I’m used to it. I just have to smile and stay away from sharp objects.”

Her eyes glinted, and Kent barked out a laugh along with her, the sound swallowed by a cab going by and the lights glinting above. Not as colourful as Vegas. Far scarier, somehow. Far more real.

“All of that just to dance?”

“All of this just to play hockey?”

Kent smiled, thin and stretched, and Chiyo did, too. Swung her arms through the cold night air. “We do what we have to do.”

“You said it.” Another cab shot out from a side street, and Kent stopped short, watched it turn and plunge into the traffic of post-midnight New York. “Looked like fun when you were dancing, though.”

“It was. I might cheat on you, actually.”

Red lights, and Kent raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Chiyo nodded. “He is a dancer, too, at the Ballet. We did pas de deux together this season. Romeo and Juliet. Very passionate, some thought.”

“So we’re breaking up?”

“Not yet, I would appreciate. But possibly. If you agree.”

“Sure.” It wasn’t like he was staying, anyway. And it had worked, what they’d done. “Shit, a boyfriend in your company, you’ll be all settled.”

“Until I move again, yes.”

“You’re not staying?”

She shook her head. “I want to dance all over the world. Next stop is Sydney, I think.”

“Running from the sun.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Her laughter echoed in the street, fit in and wrung it out of proportion. An edge of something rough and merciless, and Kent knew the feeling so well he almost wanted to punch it out of her. Keep it inside of them where it belonged, because they didn’t have the right. Either of them. Not with the choices they’d made.

She told him goodnight at the door of her apartment complex. Back to sweetness, and the doorman smiled at them before looking the other way. Gave them the privacy of the young couple in love that they were, and Chiyo pressed her lips to his, cold and red. “Think about it. And get home safe.”

“You, too.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and Kent waved down a cab. His apartment in Brooklyn was too far away to walk, even if he was wearing shoes and the bridge was so beautiful at night it hurt.

Las Vegas was, too, except the pain was a dull ache in the marrow of his bones beating in tune with his heart as the plane touched down. Even in the airport, on the very cusp of the city, it showed itself from its most glamorous and debaucherous side, lights and people and sound all playing together in introducing newcomers and welcoming back old-timers to fabulous Sin City. No GM’s this time, no teammates, and he didn’t need them.

Absent-mindedly, Kent realised that he was home.

-/ \\-

No one had changed much, it turned out, as the dressing room slowly filled back up with noise and gear and people he’d almost forgotten the superstitions of. The one place he truly belonged.

Swoops swaggered in as one of the last with a tan that hadn’t been there when he’d left in August and a shit-eating grin on his face.

Back to playing captain. ”How was Switzerland?”

The grin widened. ”Fucking hot.”

”What was her name this time, then?”

”Paula.”

Kent raised an eyebrow. ”Only one?”

”She was more woman than I have ever experienced.”

”What, you fucked some fat lady?” Carly yelled from across the room.

”She was a fucking ballerina, you asshole!” He gave him the finger before turning back to Kent. ”I understand now, bro. Ballerinas. Holy shit.”

Time to shine. Kent let his face fall, turned back to his stall. Tightened his shin pads with a little too much focus.

“You okay, bro?”

“I’m fine.” Biting and snappy. Real, if he hated himself enough to admit it.

“Oh, shit.” Swoops lowered his voice. “Did you guys break up?”

”Jeez, make it sound girlier, wouldja?”

“Fuck, man,” Greenberg said from his other side, the eaves-dropping motherfucker, voice serious in a way Kent couldn’t remember having heard before. Almost caught him off-guard.

“Russians, they are better lovers,” Pops said, far too loud, and a couple of guys glared at him. “Was in article, Mikhail Cherishev. Pas de deux partner. Is rough, buddy.”

“Shit, did she cheat on you?” Tady asked, and Kent tightened his skates. Jaw set, eyes steely.

“Pops, how the fuck do you know about ballet? Figure skating’s fucking bad enough!”

“Is Russian athlete, we have club! No, I kid, he dance with Novikov back in - “

“Always fucking Novikov - “

“A bitch cheating – fuck, Parser, you that bad in bed?”

”Can you drop it?” Kent snapped, jersey in hand. ”Please.”

Perhaps it was his eyes, perhaps the slight crack in his voice. He didn’t question it. Inhaled instead.

“Swoops, didja do something other than fuck in Switzerland?”

A beat, and Swoops smiled again, as relaxed as ever. Because no one ever asked. ”Fuck you, man, I played in the National League. And let me tell you, European French is fucked. Up.”

”I bet.”

”And I met Hans Ciannelli!”

Pops’ eyes widened, and Kent didn’t roll his. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“I don’t know,” Swoops shrugged. “He’s only one of the best fucking figure skaters in the world. After Novikov, of course.”

He and Pops exchanged a no-look high-five, and Kent shook his head. “Didja get a chance to suck his cock?”

A foot met his shin pads, and Kent returned the grin. ”Fuck you, I met women’s skaters, too!”

”Oh yeah, like who?”

”Like Krista Reinhardt! She’s only, like, fifteen, but - ”

”Fifteen? I know it’s Europe, but that’s fucking disgusting, Jeff!”

”Fuck you, I didn’t mean it like that! But I’m telling you, that girl’s revving up juniors like you did, it’s fucking brilliant. If she doesn’t make top ten in Sochi, I’m gonna eat my fucking jersey.”

“But Baganova beat her,” Pops declared and slipped his jersey over his head.

“Yeah, ‘cause she’s fucking doping, like Pavlyuchenka and Starikova! I swear, if their clits aren’t the size of fucking grapes, I’m - “

“They not dope, just better than fat Swiss girls!”

“She’s not fat, she’s just – she’s fifteen, Pops, Jesus! And look at Tanaka, she’s got tits the size of her fucking head, she’s still making the podium!”

“They realise no one else has a fucking clue what they’re talking about, right?” Bubbles whispered, and Kent grinned. Made it thin.

“Tune ‘em out, if ya can. They’ll run outta steam eventually.” He stood up, fastened his helmet and slapped Bubbles on the shoulder before turning to the rest of the room. ”Practice’s in ten minutes! I’m not saying Burke’ll skin ya alive if you’re late, but I’m not saving your asses if he tries.”

A couple of guys laughed, and Kent laughed with them, made sure to let his face fall a second before slipping out of the door. Barely even had to lie.

But his head didn’t hurt, and his feet carried him without any hint of wobbling. He’d be alright. Always was.

“Sucks about your girlfriend,” Swoop said under his breath after practice. Slapped his back a little gentler than usual and nudged Adebayo out of his stall next to Kent’s.

“Thanks.”

Swoops nodded. “You know, I never got a chance to watch the Golden Knights play. And you know what they say, shitty basketball isn’t worth watching alone.”

“They’re shitty enough to watch with your captain?”

“They’re shitty enough to watch with a teammate. According to ESPN, at least.”

“They said that about us, too.”

“They sure did.” He slapped Kent’s back again. “And we sure showed them, eh?”

_Eh_.

“We sure did.”

*

They had one week of training camps before the season started, 48 games, none inter-conference. As good as it was going to be, and Kent threw himself into it head-first, ran until his legs were about to collapse beneath him and watched tape until a headache threatened to begin behind his eyes and he was too scared to continue. Rest, lots of water, check-ins with his doctor.

Burke was right, not all of the guys would make the roster come season start. But Kent would.

And in the quiet of the rink, in the privacy of his mind as he shot in puck after puck exactly where they needed to go, because he was Kent fucking Parson and he was fucking unstoppable, he found himself missing Jack. Missed him so much it hurt. It wasn’t new, almost comforting in its familiarity, and he wanted to drown it in a bottle of scotch or brandy or beer, and he wanted to carve it into his chest and keep it there forever.

At some point during the week, front office showed up, stayed for a couple of hours and returned the next day. And the one after that. Micro-managing, Scraps muttered, and Kent agreed, but there was nothing they could do other than smile and wave and shoot an accidental puck or two into the glass inches from the fucker’s face. Try not to worry as much about crowd counts as they clearly did, the chances of playing in a rink less filled than four years ago. Potential wasted work. Stanley Cup be damned.

Motherfuckers.

Who could go suck their dicks after the season opener, 120% of usual attendance. And a win. That was good, too, of course. Keep it up, boys.

If anyone did a lewd gesture at the retreating back of the paper nuzzler, Burke didn’t say anything. As long as they kept winning, he couldn’t give less of a shit.

And they did.

And each time, Kent stopped onto the ice and breathed. It didn’t matter how many times he did it, whoever he was outside of it, the ice was where he belonged. Had been for sixteen years.

The entirety of his life before he met Jack.

Kent pushed down the thought. Kept playing. Kept winning.

Even if he wasn’t quite where he’d been the year before.

The Coyote was hot on his heels, almost close enough for Kent to smell his sweat. The goal was coming up, surrounded by red and black, and he wasn’t even going to try. Not this time, not with a two goals in the lead and the Coyote sharpshooter out in second period from a stick to the face. Not this time.

With a sharp turn, Kent brought the puck around, passed to a nearby Scraps and returned towards centre ice. Received again halfway there. Passed. Received.

The Coyotes made it there with fifty seconds left on the clock, and Kent waited until the last possible moment to shoot towards Carly and step to the side. Turn, avoid the boards. Ten games and he hadn’t gotten near those once. He would again, at some point. Had to. But not yet.

A Coyote caught Scraps against the boards, pressed his shoulder and stick in, and Scraps grit hit teeth, kept going and kept the puck between the two of them as they moved towards the Aces’ goal. Past it. Around it. And Pops followed, not quite on his knees, a watchful eye on every tiny move.

Just out of danger, the puck came loose, and Scraps all but collapsed against the boards. All good, because Kent caught the puck off the Coyote’s stick and moved past another, forced down the exhaustion. There would be time, but not quite yet.

Another Coyote came into view, and Kent swerved, passed to Bubbles mid-turn. Received again a moment later as a desperate Coyote pushed himself forward. Ran for a couple of feet before another showed up, stuck out his stick and all but fell down on the ice as the horn blared above them.

Disappointment and relief. Equals for once. Loose handshakes and a nod from Burke. Fist bumps and sweat-stained gear.

And vultures.

”Parson, can you tell us something about your recovery?” one man asked, eyes glinting behind square glasses. ”Do you still experience symptoms relating to your concussion?”

”Did you ever consider retirement during your time off?”

“Has your recent breakup with Chiyo Sha impacted your performance, do you think?”

”Many retired NHL players are experiencing disturbing amounts of brain damage, most likely caused by concussions acquired during their time playing. You’ve been concussed twice now, are you worried about your future?”

”The last goal of the game was a mere three minutes before time ran out, a very common occurrence in your play. Do you purposefully go for last-minute goals, or does it just happen?”

Danielle Macmillan, blue skirt suit and practical ponytail near the front. Kent could’ve kissed her. ”It’s not something I do on purpose, but, y’know, when the game needs it, I absolutely do try to turn the game around. And even when it doesn’t, last-minute goals are the best ones, I think. When you’re completely exhausted and going on adrenaline only, and to get that last push in the right direction, that really helps with morale in the last seconds. Shows that giving your all in the end really does work, even if it’s tough.”

”Empty net goals, too?”

He smirked. ”I dunno, I think those’re kinda naughty, don’t you?”

Laughter spread out amongst the vultures, ruptured by a loud snort from his side. A glance over revealed Bubbles trying and failing to hide a grin in his hand. When he met Kent’s eyes, he let out another snort.

“Parson, some argue that you’ve been playing much safer since returning from the hit you took in May, is this a purposeful choice? Can we expect a changed game from you?”

Kent closed his eyes.

-/ \\-

The apartment was empty when he returned home, always was, and Kent put his gear in the washing machine, emptied the dishwasher and sat down on the coach. Looked out at the lights below.

All-clear. Not quite ten months, and he was finally back to where he’d been before. Officially.

There were going to be others, he knew. Not quite four years, and he could probably do four times as much. But he couldn’t do four more concussions. No one could, if they wanted to be able to move and talk by fifty. The vulture had been right about that.

When they’d been younger, back when they’d first started sleeping in the same bed but before they started fucking, Jack had told him how much it frightened him. Concussions. And Kent had laughed at him, pretended like he wasn’t scared of the same fucking thing and told Jack not to worry about it. He was tough. They both were. They were fucking invincible.

Except they weren’t, and Jack was in fucking Massachusetts, and Jack was doing so much fucking better, and Kent needed a fucking drink.

With a soft groan, a small pull in his knee from sitting wrong, he stood up from the couch and pulled on a flannel. Closed the door behind him with care. Even if no one was there to hear it.

The night air hit his skin, and Kent inhaled, tasted smoke and gasoline and neon. Perfume.

In the years he’d been going, there were three things Kent had realised about gay bars in Las Vegas: one, they were always open, even on holidays. Especially on holidays. Two, if he let a guy run his hand through his hair, it was much more likely he’d suck his dick later. Three, if a bar had guys standing around by the walls with their shirts on offering things that weren’t drinks but would still get him fucked up if he accepted, it wasn’t a bar he wanted to be in.

Two years were a long time, Kent thought to himself as he lifted another pink monstrosity to his lips. Last one, he’d let the bartender know, in case someone wanted to buy him something. It wouldn’t be the first time, and still flattering as fuck. Still as intoxicating.

If there was a fourth thing Kent had learned about gay bars in Vegas, it was never to get drunk at one. Just in case. And to never leave his drink unattended. Just in case.

A body slid in next to him at the bar, a hand down his lower back, slightly more tentative as it got to his ass. But Kent didn’t pull back, didn’t even notice, and the hand cupped his him. Squeezed. The bartender handed over the man’s drink, and with one last squeeze, the hand was gone. The body, too. Nice as it was.

A fifth thing Kent had learned. Some guys just wanted the thrill of chasing.

Across the bar, a drag queen was downing a bright pink shot to the cheers of the guys around her. She slammed the glass down on the bar, stumbled slightly at the sudden change of balance, then looked up and caught Kent’s eye. Bright purple eyeshadow, shimmering, quite pretty, and Kent raised his glass. The drag queen smiled, dark red lipstick stretching to reveal a couple of spots on her teeth, hidden again as a frown overtook the smile. She lifted the next shot closer to her ear than her mouth, and her friends laughed as the glass hit just the edge of the counter. Across from them, the bartender looked worried but stayed where he was. Waited. Relaxed imperceptibly as the drag queen pushed herself off the counter and wobbled past her friends, eyes still on Kent.

Quite pretty, really. Lithe and feminine but with a strength hidden beneath that reminded Kent of Chiyo. A dancer’s grace. Or a performer’s. Long neck, full lips, high cheekbones. Blue eyes.

Nothing wrong with trying something new, Kent thought and ran a finger over the rim of his now-empty glass. Winced at the smell of alcohol reaching his nose as the drag queen leaned against the counter a couple of feet from him. Maybe not tonight, though.

“Excuse me!” she yelled, slipped, kept hold of Kent’s forearms as he reached out to steady her. Long nails, so dark they looked purple. Hairless arms. “Aren’t you, like, Kent Parson?”

Had it not been for the years of routine, he would’ve dropped her on the floor. Instead, he held on tighter, forced his face to stay calm, as calm as fucking possible when his stomach was in his throat blocking any hope for air. There were words he should say, denials, jokes, let them laugh, lead them on, don’t let them _fucking_ know, but none came. Nothing did, except a laugh from the drag queen. A giggle.

”Oh my God, it _is_ you! Listen, listen, I _loved_ your goal against the Canucks. It was so – so beautiful, your goals always are, that poor goalie!”

She giggled again, loud and high-pitched, and a couple of guys were looking at them now. Glancing over from their own conversations, hands on chests and biceps and asses. Instinctively, Kent inched back, but it was no use. The drag queen swayed away from the counter, stumbled in her heels and fell face-first into Kent’s chest. She steadied himself on his biceps, squeezed, made a face that in any other situation would’ve meant that Kent was two minutes from getting his dick sucked.

But not tonight.

”You’re real pretty up close, anyone ever – anyone ever tellyou that?”

On his waist, pushing her away or keeping her standing upright, Kent’s hands were getting clammy. He swallowed. “I’m not - “

”Marble!” someone yelled.

The weight was lifted off Kent as quickly as it had come, and he almost fell. A few feet off, almost hidden by the colourful air, impossible to ignore, the drag queen latched herself onto a new guy covered in glitter and sweat, both yelling incomprehensibly. Amidst the jumble, Kent heard his own name, what had to be his name, and the Shirley Temple in his stomach moved its way up, pushed just at the top of his throat. Ready to pop his fucking head like a chewed-up piece of gum.

”I am so sorry about her, darling” the new guy said, turning to Kent with the drag queen half-lying across his chest. ”She’s kinda wasted.”

He giggled, and Kent swallowed down the bile in his throat. Prayed it would stay down. ”It’s cool, man. Will she be - ”

”He’s Kent Parson!” the drag queen stage-whispered. ”Kent _fucking_ Parson!”

’Sorry’, the guy mouthed.

”No problem,” Kent grimaced, hoped it came out like somewhat of a smile. ”Get ’er some water, yeah? And tell ‘er to maybe watch a little less hockey.”

The guy cocked his head.

“Kent Parson’s a pretty famous hockey player,” Kent explained, smiled until it tore his face to pieces. “I’ve been told I look like ‘im.”

“I bet he’s a cutie, then,” the guy said, and Kent laughed, left with a smirk and a nod and a facade that never cracked. Breathed in the cold Vegas air, dark save for pink and green and red and blue, thousands and thousands of lights shining on everyone and hiding all. Sweat stains in the armpits of his shirts – both of them – and the curt and unmistakable smell of fear in his nose. Bile in his throat and in the kitchen sink when the front door shut behind him, loud this time, entirely without sound, and everything was. In the apartment, in Vegas, in the entire fucking desert. Loud and soundless. Anonymous with stars.

Sixth thing Kent had learned about gay bars in Vegas. In the US. In the entire fucking world.

There was never going to be a seventh.

-/ \\-

The Samwell Men’s hockey team fucking _sucked_.

-/ \\-

As soon as Kent sat foot in the Aces’ rink building, two weeks into March, two weeks after picking up John Smith and his heavily pregnant wife and their two older children from the McCarran International Airport, he knew something was wrong. It wasn’t a gut feeling, barely a feeling at all, just the foreboding knowledge that shit was about to go down.

”Miss Teterya wants to see you,” the receptionist said, eyes on anything but him, leafing through a small file on her desk. Kent didn’t even know they used paper anymore. ”In her office. Right now.”

Right now, and Kent wanted to punch a fucking wall. Or throw up. Or throw himself in front of a fucking car. Practice started in half an hour, they had a game that night, there was no fucking time for anything else.

And yet there had to be. Smile and laugh and jest. Let her laugh, lead her on – as if any of that shit worked on Marina Teterya. The _bitch_.

”If you’re not Parson, fuck off,” she yelled through the door.

”It’s me, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Almost as soon as the door slid shut, Kent wanted to run. Miss Teterya, Molyneux, some front office lady Kent couldn’t remember the name of.

There it was, he realised. The day his career was going to end. The fucking cross-dresser had blabbered, and someone had believed her, and - 

\- and they would have to drag him out kicking and screaming. Lazy shoulders, the slightest of frowns. Steady voice, steady hands. ”Have I done something wrong?”

”Depends on what you define as wrong,” miss Teterya said, looking every bit a Bond villain in her chair, sans the cat. Or a queen ready to order the beheading of an unfortunate peasant. ”I do hope you have a good fucking explanation for this, though.”

She slid a printed-out article across her desk.

KENT PARSON IN REHAB – THE Q’S BIGGEST SCANDAL CONTINUED. Underneath was a picture of Kent, grainy and clearly from a cellphone, waiting outside of the facility that had treated Navid’s sister, the one he’d picked him up at that one time.

”That is you, is it not?”

Relief hit like a tsunami, drowned him along with exhaustion and the brandy he’d had the night before, and Kent nodded. Breathed.

”Is there anything we need to know about?” Molyneux’s voice was low and level, the calm before the storm. And Kent kept standing. Steady voice and steady hands, not a foot out of place. “‘cause you have to admit it’s a tad fucking suspicious. You had a concussion last summer, went completely off the grid for a month, and now you’re in front of a fucking rehab centre! Fuck, what do you expect us to think here?”

Swearing. That was new. And Kent closed his eyes. It was too fucking early in the morning for this. Too fucking long into the season. ”There’s nothing you need to know about. I haven’t taken any painkillers since July - and you’ve seen me play, wouldn’t you’ve noticed something earlier if there was an issue, y’think?”

”So what were you doing there?” Marina Teterya asked, hands folded in front of her face, short red nails shining in the light.

“The sister of a childhood friend of mine was being treated there. I walked with him to visit her.”

So close to the truth it hurt, and if the relaxation in Marina’s wrists were to be believed, she knew it. But not Molyneux. ”What about June? You know, the month you dropped off the face of the earth? And don’t tell me you were with your girlfriend, I think we both know - “

“I was in Vermont.”

“Alone?”

”If there was anything to worry about there, we’d be worrying already,” Miss Teterya cut in. Loyalty only goals could buy. ”Right?”

Kent nodded.

”Good. So what we need to worry about is this.” She tapped the article. ”Do you want a statement or a press conference?”

Kent blinked. “What?”

“We need to set the record straight, Parson. This is serious shit, and if it’s not debunked now, you’re gonna have some serious rumours on your back again. If someone starts talking about doping again, I’m gonna make damn sure you regret it. You’re a real fucking good player, but - “

“The fuck d’ya mean ‘again’?”

“ - you’ve got some fucking baggage, kid.” She smiled, thin and entirely humourless. “Now, I’m real fucking good at my job, but you need to be front and centre on this. Can you do that?”

Because this was serious, too, and Kent wanted to punch something. Or sleep for a week. “Statement. But leave out the friend part, yeah? They don’t deserve their privacy leaked like that.”

Marina Teterya opened her laptop, thin and slick and probably as expensive as Kent’s watch. “Don’t worry, no one wants that. I’ll get a draft to you in half an hour. Go do your job.”

If the door slammed a little too hard behind him, Kent couldn’t find it in him to care. It wasn’t even half past nine in the morning.

Too fucking early for whiskey, and he saved it until after afternoon practice. Optional, but he still came. Always had, always would. Better than reading the news, anyway, even if Marina had to have shit on every single outlet in North America.

Never enough if the real story slipped out, he knew. Concussions and injuries be damned, the truth could burn him to a crisp.

And all he could do was play. Play and smirk and joke as the Las Vegas Aces swept through playoffs like a fucking hurricane, a much-criticised analogy on ESPN given October, with Kent as the eye of the storm. Because he always was.

”Did you see his face?”

”We all saw, Carly,” he said, slipped his jersey off over his head. Another win and they’d be in the Conference finals. Los Angeles Kings most likely, given the Sharks’ injured left winger, and they’d need to strengthen their defence if that was the case.

”Yeah, well, it was fucking awesome - almost as good as your fucking hair, _Jesus_!”

But that was for another day. The NHL was more than just games, as much as he wished it wasn’t. Running a hand through his hair, Kent grimaced. ”Fuck you, man, at least I’ve got some!”

”Nice fucking one, Parse!”

”Shut it, Crawford! But seriously, that guy did _not_ know what hit him!”

”That’s what she said!”

”That makes no fucking sense!”

”With your face it does.”

”Okay, fuck each and every one of you, at least I got the best fucking goal!”

“Nah, that was Parser.”

”You get no good goal since he in peewee, Parse have two every game!”

“Fuck no, he’s just lucky the refs are fucking blind.”

”At least I get goals, unlike some of you fuckers.”

“At the least the rest of us’ve got personalities.”

“And girlfriends!”

”Fuck you, I’ve got a personality!”

“Ha, not saying shit ‘bout the - “

”And we’ve got fucking playoffs to win!” Burke’s voice cut through. Kent hadn’t even noticed him arriving. ”So get your asses dressed, and I better see you all tomorrow at 10 AM sharp or you’ll be doing suicides ‘til you puke!”

He left with laughter still ringing through the air, the taste of victory too intoxicating to ignore. No shit sticking, no clouds staying for longer than a couple of the days, and by the time the Stanley Cup finals rolled around, loss wasn’t even an option. They were the Las Vegas Aces, and they were fucking invincible. Each and every single one of them.

*

The New York Rangers beat the Boston Bruins 4-3, because of course they did, and Kent stepped onto the ice of Madison Square Garden with déjà vu pushing its way up his throat and adrenaline in his veins. Too early, but it was alright. Didn’t fucking touch him.

The puck dropped, and Kent shot it to the side, set after, scored the first goal less than two minutes into the game. He didn’t look up at the stands afterwards, didn’t check for dark hair and blue eyes that weren’t there, because of course they weren’t. They never were.

Second goal came in at 10:32. Third in second period.

Fourth in third.

A fucking massacre, and the fuckers deserved it.

*

A fucking massacre at the T-Mobile Arena, too, and they probably deserved it just as much.

*

As soon as Kent stepped onto the ice for the third game, he felt his balance go. Fine that morning, fine in the afternoon, nowhere to find as the puck dropped and the Rangers ran, and he tried, too. Skated through the pain, shot when the puck came to him, passed as accurately as he always did, fell twice more. A fucking horror, and he grit his teeth until he felt something crack. Ran through it.

The puck flew through the air and hit the pipe of the other team’s goal, bounced back onto the ice. Almost immediately, Swoops was on it, stick already halfway up. Around him, others were arriving, some teammates, some not, and Kent watched it all happen as if in slow motion.

And then the horn blew, and the Rangers had to have gotten a new one, a louder one, because Kent nearly fell on his next step. Slipped on the ice like he was four fucking years old again. The boards were too close, and had it not been for a hand on his arm pulling him back onto his feet, he would’ve hit his head.

”Thanks.”

“You managing?” Scraps asked, and Kent nodded. Pulled himself loose and skated back into position.

The puck fell. Someone hit it. The show went on, and Kent was always a few steps behind, always a little too fucking slow. There were cameras around, he could feel them on his back, could already hear the analyses and shaking heads. Marina Teterya’s frown and tapping nails.

Still, he tried, and there was a goal. An assist, and Rezzy pulled him in for a long celly. Skated them towards the bench. “Burke’s orders, Parse. Go home and rest, we’ll handle this one. Come back swinging.”

And he almost did, then, swung a fist into Rezzy’s face, but there were too many eyes on them. Instead, he did as ordered and bumped Greenberg’s fist and closed his eyes.

“Do you need to see a medic?” someone whispered, and he shook his head. Opened his eyes again and watched the rest of the game. Made sure to bump every fist of the guys jumping on and off. Celebrated with them all as another win ticked in, a goal in overtime, and they were halfway there.

He’d be there for the rest of them.

No more scotch on game days.

*

The puck was by the boards, and so was Kent. His stick clacked against the Ranger’s, loud and all-encompassing despite the roars of the crowd just behind them. The other player’s shoulder knocked into his, hard but far from enough to throw Kent off his game. At last, he got the upper hand for a fraction of a second, and it was enough. The puck went off, right towards a waiting Swoops, and Kent pulled back before any fists could come his way.

The Ranger was quicker than anticipated. In the blink of an eye, he’d grabbed Kent by the arm with his free hand, pulled him back. Bracing himself for the hit, Kent closed his eyes, only to fling them back open when something warm and wet made its way across his cheek, way too fucking close to his mouth for comfort.

With a yell of disgust, Kent pushed him away. ”What the fuck, man?”

The Ranger smirked in return, tongue that had moments before been on Kent’s cheek still sticking out slightly from his mouth as the game came to a stop around them.

Scrappy had punched a Ranger in the face, breaking his nose on impact, and Kent couldn’t fucking blame him.

Still, he laughed as well, adrenaline and victory and relief and anger, too much and too little, and the puck dropped again, and he ran.

And the world faded once more.

*

“One more,” Burke told them in the dressing room, and they echoed it on their way to the ice, through warm-ups, through every pass and turn and rebound and save. When the Rangers got ahead, and when they stayed there. First and second and third period, saved in the last second by a check from Carly and a well-placed slapshot. Quieted down as overtime ticked by with nothing but penalties and exhaustion, and there was no breath left.

2-2, and Kent threw his helmet onto the floor of the dressing room, rested his head in his hands and breathed as the silence multiplied around him. Broken by two pieces of a stick on the floor and a string of Spanish swears mixing with Russian and Slovakian and Swedish and French.

At least his head didn’t hurt.

And he didn’t miss in the shoot-out.

But neither did the Ranger.

Or Swoops.

Or the second Ranger.

But Rezzy did, exhausted and angry and sleep-deprived as he was.

And the third Ranger didn’t.

“Just one more,” Burke reminded them afterwards, but no one listened. No one would for at least a day, and he knew it. There was nothing to do but wait, and they’d come back swinging. They always fucking did, ‘cause they were the Las Vegas Aces, and they were on fucking fire. Even on the days they burned themselves.

*

With a loud wear, Kent threw himself to the side, only narrowly avoided the Ranger. The check would’ve been a nasty one, no doubt sending him out of the last few minutes of the Stanley Cup finals’ sixth game.

Not a fucking option.

Getting himself back on track as quickly as he’d gotten off, Kent set back after the puck moving dangerously close to the Aces goal. Between the pipes, Pops was already squatted down, his most hostile glare sent towards the advancing Rangers passing the puck between them.

The shot was swift, impossible to predict, and Pops threw himself to the side. Caught the puck only by the very edge of his glove. Immediately as it hit the ice again, a Ranger was there, and Kent let out another swear only a couple of feet away. Too _fucking_ far.

The Ranger’s stick came down, but Carly’s came first, shot the puck firmly off, and for a fraction of a second, all was good. The next, Carly was still sliding across the ice, right towards Kent. There was no time for panic, no time for slowing down, and with a quick breath, Kent jumped over his outstretched body, landed down again safely and caught the puck just under the nose of a Ranger. With a hard hit, it soared back across the ice, caught by Swoops somewhere around centre ice. And Kent was right after it, breathing hard and feeling more alive than he ever had.

Passing to Bubbles, the two moved ahead with Rezzy and Kent hot on their heels, each on their own side. Ready for wherever the puck needed to go, and it went left, a few feet off Rezzy’s stick, but a step to the side and a subtle hip-check brought harmony back. A slapshot off Scraps’ stick, beautiful, if slightly too much to the right.

Kent continued forward, watched the puck bounce off the goalie’s chest and back onto the ice where it was swiftly shot off. Too hurried, too panicked, and Kent grinned. There were a few Rangers close by, too close, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The burn in his thighs barely noticeable beneath adrenaline and conviction, he skated forwards, ignored the blotches of red and blue coming ever nearer. Eyes on the puck and nowhere fucking else.

The Rangers were good, too fucking good sometimes, but Kent was far more desperate for a win than they’d ever fucking be. With the last few ounces of strength left in his body, he threw himself forward, hit the puck moments before the nearest Ranger could. Torres, he distantly noted, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. Not where they were. His stick broke on impact, almost hit him in the face, and they collided in a way that was going to hurt for a while, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing _fucking_ mattered.

”Parse!”

The sad remains of the stick hit the ice, and Kent swirled towards the voice, locked eyes with Swoops leaning against the boards, one hand on the railing, the other holding out a stick. Pulling himself free from Torres – the Ranger – he ran up, grabbed it, set towards the puck.

There was going to be a penalty soon, real fucking soon with the way Rezzy’s stick hit the Ranger’s, the way their shoulders knocked together harder with every passing second, and they had the time. It wouldn’t hurt them. But Kent still turned the new stick in his hands, skated towards them, only halfway there when the puck came loose and a second Ranger sent it back onto the ice - 

\- and right into Kent’s path.

His mouth guard was aching in a way that meant he was going to need a new one, but that was for after the game. Speeding up even further, a strain in his knee he was going to regret, Kent lifted his stick until he could bring it down with a swift turn of his upper body. Drawing to a still on the ice, he watched it soar through the air, held his breath as the goalie threw himself to the side.

The horn blew, and it took the last of Kent’s willpower not to fall to his knees at the sound. Instead, he roared, a broken sound drowned by hundreds of other voices around him, within him, screaming at the top of ever cell in his body.

4-2. Five minutes to go.

Pulling himself together, Kent nodded a thanks at Swoops and set towards the face-off circle. Five more minutes. He could do five more minutes.

-/ \\-

”Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!”

With a grin that hadn’t faded for half an hour, Kent lifted the Cup over his head, ignored the burn in his arms from the thirty-five pounds plus champagne that spilled from the sides and soaked his already disgusting underarmour. Where his jersey had gone, he had no idea and not a single care left in the world for as some of the champagne made it into his mouth, dripped from his horrible excuse of a playoff beard. Around him, the other guys and whoever the fuck else were there roared, and Kent roared with them.

The red mane of Marina Teterya flashed in the crowd in turn with cameras, but Kent was too drunk to care, on victory and booze both.

To his right, Bubbles lifted the Cup over his head, and the roaring began anew. If it had ever stopped. Someone stuck another bottle in Kent’s hand, unopened, shaken, soaking Kent to the bone as the cork finally went. And all he could do was laugh, and all he did was laugh, loud and unhindered, because he was twenty-two years old, the youngest American-born captain in the NHL, concussion-symptom-free since March, and a fucking two-time Stanley Cup champion.

He was on fucking fire.

The alcohol burned his throat, and Kent let it, revelled in it, went through the rest of the night in a blur. There were interviews, he remembered afterwards, more celebrations, a woman or two pressing their mouths to his, more alcohol, memories of blue eyes and empty ice rinks and countdowns that refused to be drowned no matter how much champagne he poured over them. Just like last time they’d won, except this time there were no brown eyes and sharp words, and that was a memory he could drown, he found. Drown and disappear and dissolve, as if it had never been there in the first place. Until it couldn’t fucking touch him.

At some point, somehow, he found himself … somewhere. With someone. Swoops. How they got there, where exactly they were, Kent had no idea, couldn’t remember. Couldn’t care less about. All he knew was how soft Swoops’ hair was against the arm he’d thrown over his shoulders. How Canadian he was, how pretty his eyes were. How easy it would be to turn his head and kiss him and blame it all on the alcohol like he had when he’d kissed Jack at parties before … before they’d become whatever the fuck it was they’d become. Before they fucked in a fucking dressing room and a fucking swimming pool and Jack’s soft fucking bed.

A laugh tore its way up Kent’s throat, or maybe it was champagne.

It was all so different now.

Everything was so fucking different.

-/ \\-

The plane touched ground with a gentle bump, and Kent blinked his eyes open. Someone was applauding, others joined in, and the noise pulled him out of the last remnants of sleep.

Logan International Airport. It had been a split-second decision, a selfish one, most likely brought on by the alcohol still buzzing beneath his skin.

A nice young woman with a birthmark near her eyebrow handed him a set of keys fitting an old, beat-up Toyota more suited for a family or a young couple fresh out of college, but there was gas in the tank and no visible shortcomings. It would do.

”And we’ll never be royals,” a woman sang on the radio.

”Royals,” a choir agreed.

”Royals,” Kent whispered as Boston passed by. A man in an Audi gave him the finger in a roundabout. Kent turned up the music.

It didn’t take long before he reached the small college town the GPS had been set for. The streets. Frat Row, and Kent snorted. Jack was many things, but someone who belonged in a fraternity – never. Not in a million fucking years.

And yet, there he was.

The building itself looked ready to fall down at any moment, and there were garden chairs on the lawn, empty beer bottles - someone had even dragged out a butt-ugly green couch probably riddled with jizz and diseases. An American flag was hanging out an open window, moving softly in the slight breeze.

The naked guy in sunglasses smoking a bong on the roof, Kent blamed on his sleep-deprived brain.

Barely two knocks in, the front door was opened by a tall shirtless man maybe Kent’s age, maybe a little younger, with rectangle glasses and a horrible haircut.

Kent smirked, hands in jean pockets, cap on wrong. ”’morning, bro. Is Zimms here?”

The man didn’t move. If he even blinked, Kent couldn’t see it.

”I’d like to talk to him, if he’s here? I can come back later if he’s out - ”

”Rans!”

Kent forced down the urge to cover his ears.

From inside the house, someone yelled back. Or yelled just in general. Eventually, a man slightly shorter than the bespectacled one but with a matching cap and salmon shorts arrived at the door. ”What is it, Holster, I was kind of in the middle of some - ” His eyes caught on Kent, who turned up his chin at him. ”- thing.”

The silence was deafening. Kent swore he could hear crickets.

”I think I need to take a break,” the second guy finally said. ”’cause I’m seeing Kent fucking Parson on our doorstep.”

”Nah, brah, I see him, too,” the taller of the two said.

For maybe half a minute, Kent didn’t dare look at his watch, the two exchanged a wordless conversation. Finally, just as Kent’s hip was starting to hurt from holding all his weight, the shorter turned his attention back to him. ”You’re real, right?”

“Last I checked.”

”Bro.” A smile spread on the man’s face. ”Fucking wicked!”

”Congrats on the Cup, brah, you guys deserved it. That goal in the final was a fucking beaut!” the blonde continued. The change of mood nearly gave Kent whiplash.

He smirked anyway. ”Which one?”

”Fuck you, man, only you can say shit like that.”

”They were all fucking beauts, though, bro - ”

” - yeah, your goals are fucking _legendary_!”

”Watching the Aces play is so fucking s’wawesome.”

”Truly. You here to see Jack?”

Fucking finally. ”If he’s here, yeah.”

The taller of the two snickered. ”He’s always here. Never goes out.”

”He doesn’t even go down to the kegsters! What’s the point of living in the Haus if you don’t go to the fucking kegsters?” The two men shook their heads at each other, momentarily forgetting Kent’s presence.

He cleared his throat. Shifted his weight.

”Right - ”

” - fuck - ”

” - sorry - ”

” - come in!”

Somehow, the inside of the house was about as disgusting as the outside, and Kent made a mental note to get a check-up when he returned to Las Vegas. As soon as the stench of marijuana came out of his clothes.

“ - foreplay like I’ve never seen it, almost too much, but then he turned it around and slammed it in there, and I swear to you, the whole rink had a fucking orgasm, fuck, I think the goalie did!”

“Jesus, Shitty, calm down, it was just the fucking Bruins, they’re – holy shit, Parse?”

Three heads poked out of what had to be a kitchen was the stench of microwaved sriracha to be trusted, one tall, one short, one -

Kent swallowed, firmly didn’t look at the half-naked guy with the moustache. Walked in. “Heya. How’s it going?”

Out of the corner of Kent’s eye, he saw the blonde guy mouth something. _He’s real_.

“All good,” the tall one said. “The fuck’re you doing here?”

“Brah, come on, be a little fucking polite,” moustache guy said and elbowed him.

”What, I’m just asking, nothing impolite about asking!”

”It’s fucking impolite when you’re talking to a fucking Stanley Cup champion, you faghead!” the shorter one agreed. Turned to Kent. “Fucking beaut of a goal in the last Final game, bro.”

“Thanks,” Kent managed. Steady voice, steady hands. “It was a team effort, though. I couldn’t’ve done it without my boys.”

“Whatever you say, brah.” moustache guy grinned. “You looking for Jack?”

Kent nodded, or shrugged, or something else.

“Fuck, Shitty, got some fucking competition, eh?”

A mutter, and Kent froze. Moustache guy – Shitty? - didn’t. “Okay, bro, that’s so fucking inappropriate and nowhere near funny - “

And Kent breathed, forced his heartbeat to slow down as the fucker went on. Next to him, the other two rolled their eyes. Behind him, the last two were eerily quiet. Possibly not even there. Kent didn’t turn to look.

“ - just continuing the rampant culture of homophobia in hockey, Chensty, so if anyone has to shut the fuck up, it’s you! Parse, brah, ignore these motherfuckers, they don’t think before opening their pie-holes, you’d think it was their assholes as much shit comes out of ‘em. Jack’s class is out soon – fuck, no, it’s already out, what do you know – he’ll probably be here in a couple of minutes. Want a beer while you wait?”

No turning back, and Kent shook his head. “I drove here, sorry. But don’t let me stop ya if you were planning on having some.”

“S’wawesome. Chensty, Hardy, are you having some or do you still have some shit left in you?” At the guys’ almost-abashed facial expressions, the eyes darting towards Kent and back, Shitty(?) grinned. “Holster, Ransom – fuck, where’d they go?”

“Class?” Kent suggested.

“Oh, yeah.” Shitty(?) shrugged, pulled out three beers from the fridge and dug his arm in for an orange soda. “Bought some of these when Jackabelle told us he didn’t drink. Apparently he doesn’t drink sugar, either, so – they’re a little old, but they should still be good. Environmental disasters, but at least they’re long-lasting.”

“It’s cool. I just came to see if he’d settled in alright.”

“Shit, give ‘im a rink and he’d settle in anywhere,” the guy who was probably Chensty said. “Motherfucker took over the ice as soon as he stepped on.”

Kent didn’t smile, and he didn’t cry. “Sounds about right. Give ‘im space and he’ll win it all for ya.”

“Didn’t this season,” the guy who might be Hardy said, and Chensty(?) snorted next to him.

“No one’s perfect,” Shitty said, a hint of something in his voice Kent could taste in his own throat. Old and rusty and hidden beneath a thick layer of dust, but still there. “We just have to play better together as a team next year. And, fuck, Parse, you don’t wanna hear about some horrible college team, why don’t we - “

The words were killed by a door swinging open, a soft, low voice ringing through thin walls, or maybe they kept going and Kent just didn’t hear them. Didn’t hear anything but footsteps coming ever nearer, until Jack came into view, tall and proud and short-haired now, blue eyes widening as they met his. And the rest of the world disappeared.

He hadn’t changed. At all. Other than the hair. Same eyes, beautiful and blue, same tensing in his shoulders, same worn-out Océanics t-shirt and jeans a size or two too big because there was no way that ass was fitting into anything else.

“Heya, Zimms. How’s it going?”

“What are you doing here?”

Short and harsh, a slap to his face, but Kent smiled through it. Sixteen years. “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine.”

He turned, moved to leave, and a flash of panic shot up Kent’s spine. “Whoa, Zimms, no pressure. If you’re tired or something, I’ll come back some other time. Company here’s pretty great.”

Behind him, a couple of guys murmured. He didn’t turn to look.

“I am tired.”

Kent opened his mouth, but Shitty caught him off. “Jack, come on, he just came out of playoffs, give him a couple of minutes, at least.”

The indecision was clear in Jack’s eyes, the flickering between Kent and the men behind him, the hallway to his right. Faded as something like resignation took its place. “Fine.”

There was no stifling the smile, the relief, and so Kent made sure not to look back as he placed the soda on the table and walked up to him. Expensive cologne and a faint hint of sweat, as if he’d run the whole way back. Probably had, given the basketball shorts. And the god-awful running shoes. A shade that yellow had to be a crime against humanity.

“And fucking congrats on the Cup, brah, you slaughtered them out there!” rang out behind them as Jack turned in the hallway.

“Thanks,” Kent smirked, and Jack stiffened. Kept going. And Kent followed, because he always did.

“Nice place.”

It was. Neat and tidy, dark blue bedspread, organised books, hockey gear half hidden in a cupboard.

“What do you want, Kenny?” Jack asked, back against the door, his arms not quite crossed in front of his chest.

“I just wanna talk, Zimms.”

“About my – about Samwell? Or what?”

Kent shrugged and ran his fingers over the cover of an old history book on Jack’s desk. “I guess. I just – I really did want to see how you were doing.”

Something in Jack’s eyes softened, and Kent’s heart clenched with it. As if he could ever let him go, as if anyone could ever take his place.

“I’m doing good, Kenny.”

“Good,” Kent said, and he meant it. He really did. “That’s great. So - is this it? For you? College, a degree … or are ya still planning on playing?”

“I play on the team here.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

For a moment, it almost looked like Jack was going to say no. “Papa thinks I can prove myself here, with the team. Show that I can still play.”

“I could getcha onto the Aces, if y’want. Fuck, they gave me a bonus and a no-trade clause last year ‘cause they were scared I’d ditch ‘em for New York. They’d give me you, too, if I asked.”

“ … I don’t know if it’s that simple.”

“It is! I can talk to management, you can come over, we can show them - “

“Kenny, I - “ Jack cut himself off. Closed his eyes. “I still want to play in the NHL, I _do_. It’s just … now, I do this. I figure this out.” He gestured, at the walls, at himself, at the poster on the wall. ‘Be better’. “One day at a time.”

Words that had been repeated hundreds if not thousands of times.

“Okay.”

Soft blue eyes looked up, wide and loud.

Kent shrugged. “If you’re sure, I’m not gonna try and talk ya out of it. I’m just letting ya know y’have options. So, what’s it like?”

“ … what?”

“College. The team here. What’s it like?”

“It’s … “ Jack swallowed. “It’s hard. Lots of people, and … it was a lot to get used to.”

Kent nodded. “The team, too?”

“No, they’re … some of them are nice.”

Distantly, Kent remembered their first year in the Q. Jack sitting alone on the bus. Bad Bob Zimmermann’s genius kid. Genius to flunk-out. “I’ve watched some of your games, you guys’re pretty, uh, creative at times.”

Something that wasn’t quite a smile flickered across Jack’s face. “We’re doing our best.”

“You made captain.”

“The team voted.”

Kent nodded. “Impressive. Anyone talented? Other than you?”

Jack shrugged. “They’re not the Océanics.” _They’re not you_. “It’s more like peewee? Or midgets, at least.”

“Less demanding.”

Jack nodded. “It’s fun.”

Fun. _Fun_. “That’s great, Zimms. Any pretty boys?”

“What?”

“On the team? Or in your classes, any pretty boys? The guys downstairs were a little … “ Kent grimaced. “’xcept maybe the one with the moustache, Shitty? He’s - “

“I’m done with that.”

“With fucking teammates?”

“I’m done with men.”

Kent raised an eyebrow. Laughed. “Jesus, Zimms, that’s one hell of a promise. Sure you’ll be able to keep that?”

Jack tightened his arms around himself. “I have to. It’s – Kenny, please.”

“Please?” _Done_ , as if it was that fucking simple, and Kent walked over, stopped as their noses were millimetres from each other. Jack’s breath was warm, everything about him was warm, lifting from his skin and forging its way into Kent’s until it settled in his bones. Old Spice and the moisturiser Alicia wore as well. Exactly as he remembered him. “Please what, Zimms?”

“… don’t fucking do that.”

“Do what?”

”The - ” Jack inhaled. ”That thing.”

”What thing?”

Something between a groan and a whine left Jack’s lips. Out of words. Kent could work with that. With a slight shift, their hands touched, and Jack tore his away. Something angry flashed through his eyes, thunder on a clear blue sky. “Kenny, you don’t belong here.”

Rushed and harsh, and Kent’s hand fisted by his side. “Neither do you.”

“But I do.”

Wide, blue eyes, and something in Kent tightened. “No, you don’t, Zimms, and y’know it. Your teammates know it, I know it, we all fucking - “ he cut himself off, dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck, Zimms, we don’t have to fight. You know we don’t.”

”But it’ll happen anyway, won’t it?”

There were things he could say to that, things he probably should say, things he had no fucking clue how to even begin to convey, but instead of saying any of those things, Kent kissed him. Just a soft press of lips against lips, and for a moment, it felt like Jack was going to pull back, hands pushing against Kent’s chest, but he nipped his bottom lip, and Jack moved to grasp at his face instead, the back of his neck, and Kent was lost. Before he could fully realise it, his hands were fisted in Jack’s hoodie, drawing him as close as fucking possible, warm hands burning through his shirt and in his hair. Had it not been for the lack of bitter aftertaste of alcohol on Jack’s tongue, Kent could’ve easily thought them back in the Q, young and invincible and together against the fucking world.

”Fuck, I missed ya,” he whispered into Jack’s mouth, moving his hands down his back until they settled in the back pockets of his jeans, squeezing lightly at the muscle underneath. Jack whined, hesitated for only a moment before deepening the kiss.

Because there were so many things they had to do, so much they didn’t have the right to, but this, they could have. Each other. That hadn’t changed, even if everything else had.

It didn’t take long before they were on the bed, shirts discarded somewhere on the floor, and Kent was in Jack’s lap. There was a hand in his hair, another somewhere on his ass, both – everything – just on the right side of painful.

On the first floor, someone had started up music, something with too much bass and too much repetition, but Kent only noticed enough to smile and press himself impossibly closer to Jack.

How he had missed this, missed _him_. Like a fucking limb.

The rest of their clothes hit the floor, and Jack was on his back, legs in a sprawl, a flush high on his cheeks. Fingers tightened in Kent’s hair, forcing out a groan, a moan, a growl, all stifled as soon as he moved down and took Jack in his mouth as far as he could. Above him, Jack cried out, spasmed, stifled a noise in his pillow, and Kent grinned, as much as he could, and ran his hands over the strength in Jack’s thighs. Revelled in the slight tremble there.

His work. His and his alone.

With a quick kiss, he pulled back.

”The fuck’re you - ”

”Patience, Zimms.” Leaning down, he fumbled through the pockets of his pants. Sat up again. Still sprawled on the bed, Jack’s eyes widened, but so did his pupils.

Five minutes later found Kent easing himself into him, hollow thrusts that sent sparks down his spine and bitten-off moans into the stale air. Jack’s eyes were screwed tight, his hands fisted in the sheets, but the short gasps that escaped him every time Kent moved in further were impossible to misunderstand.

A good fucking summer, and Kent hoisted Jack’s thighs up, angled them until he saw stars and Jack had to bite into a pillow not to cry out loud enough for them to be heard.

He was gorgeous like that, spread out and flushed and grasping at his back. So fucking gorgeous Kent couldn’t fucking breathe. There was going to be blood on his back, bruises and marks he wouldn’t have to explain to anyone, and it didn’t matter. Memories. Old and new.

So perfect he could die.

Scratching down Kent’s back, Jack seized up, spilled into his hand with a sound stifled in Kent’s shoulder, and he followed shortly afterwards, kissed them both through it and twined their fingers together until it felt like they were going to break in Jack’s grasp.

And even that would be okay. He didn’t have to play for another month.

Downstairs, the music was still playing, rough and repetitive, a couple of men yelling above it. But in Jack’s room, there was silence, save for ragged breaths and hands unclenching.

”Get out of me,” Jack whispered. ”Please.”

And Kent did, fell down next to him, brought a hand to his jaw and moved his head until he could press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. ”You’re so fucking amazing, Zimms. So fucking amazing.”

Beneath his touch, Jack stiffened slightly. Kent kissed him again. ”You’re too amazing for this team, y’know that, right? You’re too _fucking_ amazing to waste your talent on the fucking NCAA, and, and degrees and shit - ”

“Kenny - ”

”You can still get into the NHL - fuck, I’ve seen you play, you could probably get the A within a season.”

“Kenny, you need to leave.”

Kent stopped short. “What?”

Not looking at him, not _fucking_ looking at - “Kenny, I have things to do. I have to pack, the Haus closes for the summer today, and one of my – our team manager leaves for Kenya soon, we’re arranging a farewell-party for her, I – I have to help with that, too. Today.”

“Okay.” Kent swallowed. Pushed down the bile in his throat that tasted more like anger by the second. “Sure, if you’d rather hang out with them than with me, I’ll leave. I’ve got work to do anyway. Winning the Cup’s a shit-ton of paperwork, lemme tell ya.”

On the bed, Jack drew the comforter up to his hairline, and Kent rolled his eyes and stood. Dressed himself. Waited for Jack to return to the real fucking world and speak, but nothing came. Not even as he sat himself down next to him and ran his fingers through the hair sticking out on top. Soft and sweat-soaked. The comforter drew up to hide the rest of him, and Kent rolled his eyes.

“Fine, be like that. Have fun with the party.”

He tried not to slam the door behind him. Tried.

As if the motherfucker deserved it.

”Hey, man, leaving already?”

A new guy, face obscured by an old-fashioned hockey mask, Jason Voorhees-style, and Kent’s face twisted into its usual folds. ”Yeah, sorry. ‘pparently you guys got a party to plan.”

“We sure do. Gotta establish the rest of the backstory before the main character arrives. Thanks for the help with that, by the way.”

There were so many things he wanted to say to that, but the stench of marijuana followed the fucker from the open doorway behind him, and Kent wasn’t getting into that. “You’re welcome. See ya - “

“We all have to grow up at some point,” the fucker said, and for a second, it looked like he was smiling underneath the mask.

“Yeah, I guess. See - “

Outside, something fell, and a guy started shouting, swearing in ways even Kent had to admit was creative. Moustache guy, the window by the end of the hallways showed. Shitty. Half-naked and loud, a man Kent would be happy never meeting again. Or boy, he realised. He probably wasn’t much older than twenty.

Had he looked that much like a child still when he’d become the captain of the Aces?

“Sorry, we shouldn’t keep you,” the fucker interrupted. “You probably have Cup shit to deal with. An Art Ross or two to accept.”

”I don’t think you can get more than one at a time.”

”Well, if anyone could, it would be you. Just wait another three years.”

Crazy motherfuckers, each and every single one of them. “Sure. I just do my best.”

”That’s what Jack always says, too. Guess that makes sense when you’ve played together. He really rubs off on you, doesn’t he?”

You have no idea, no _fucking_ \- ”I guess he does.”

The guy nodded to himself. “He sure does. Now get going, Vincent. I’ll see you again in – no, wait, I won’t, I’ll have served my purpose in the story by then. Huh. Really shows you to enjoy the time you’ve got.”

Kent’s jaw had started to ache. “Absolutely. It was real nice meeting all of you.”

”Same, bro. Good luck next season. It won’t be your best, but it’ll sure be up there.”

“I – thanks. You, too.”

There were eyes on him as he left, hidden in the shadows of the mask, but Kent didn’t look back. Too fucking weird, too fucking _not_ what he needed, and he left the house before it could collapse around him, waved a goodbye at the guys assembled outside and got into the car.

No Jack. Not even a fucking glimpse, and if he broke any speed limits on his way back to the airport, he didn’t get caught.

It wasn’t until he was somewhere over Utah that he realised his cap was still on the floor of Jack’s room.


	8. 2013/14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kent breaks a record or three, goes to the Olympics, and gets Swoops laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know those days when you have zero inspiration to write, bordering on a writer's block, and the next you rewrite ten thousand words? Fun times.
> 
> Warnings: more sex, quite a bit of blood, borderline alcohol abuse, thoughts and talks of death, including suicide.
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by 'Victorious' by Panic! at the Disco, 'Cold War' by Janelle Monáe, and 'Lucky' by Britney Spears.

The offer hadn’t been completely out the blue. Not expected, either, shit like that never was, no matter how many years he’d been in the league, and perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t looked at his inbox until a week after the Stanley Cup final. When he was sober again.

The reminder had come out of the blue. A phone call he’d gotten through with what he felt was grace, sitting in his boxers and a ratty old t-shirt with his head feeling like it was about to explode. In a non-concussion-y way.

He had almost missed hangovers.

He’d said yes. Obviously. You didn’t say no to a Body Issue.

Which was how he ended up in the Las Vegas Aces game rink wearing only a frock coat and a smirk. Around him, the camera crew was setting up, some in the eerily empty dressing room, others by the ice. Kent almost wanted to suggest the commentators’ box – definitely deserving of defiling – but decided against it. The crew looked like they knew what they were doing, and the cameraman clearly had a vision. Of some sort.

Eventually, he nodded at the crew and made it over to Kent, all bald head and leather pants and a smile that left Kent feeling both at ease and three seconds from high-tailing it out of there.

There was no reason to be nervous around effeminate men. They weren’t exactly contagious.

”Jim Heather. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

”Kent Parson.”

”I know. We’ll start when you’re ready, but take your time. The most important thing here’s for you to be comfortable.”

“I’m good.” And he was. “How do ya want me?”

”Oh, I’d want you any which way, darling.”

”That the best you got?” Heather opened his mouth to respond, but Kent beat him to it, half an eye on the camera crew around them. ”I mean, for the pictures.”

Heather rolled his eyes, a move that somehow included his entire body. ”Well, we’re in Vegas, so I was thinking playing cards. To start off with.”

No hard feelings, at least. Kent wasn’t sure what he would’ve done had that been the case. ”I think we’re gonna need more than a playing card if we’re trynna make these decent.”

Heather snorted. ”Let’s start with losing that frock coat, yeah? ’cause none of this is going to be decent, you realise that, right?”

Of course it wasn’t. No one wanted that.

He started out in a bed of playing cards, one between his teeth and a hockey stick placed conveniently between his legs. A smirk in place, difficult around the card, but Kent hadn’t been through three years of working up to and finally surviving braces for nothing. Not to mention the seventeen years of hockey.

Heather lowered his camera. ”Exactly how raunchy are you okay with this getting, darling?”

Kent smirked. ”As raunchy as you wanna do it, babe.”

”Oh, if you want to get raunchy, then let’s get fucking raunchy.”

And they did. If Kent wasn’t going to make a couple teenage boys question a thing or two about themselves, he was considering it a mission failed. In the back of his mind, he wondered if his Ma had ever found the stash of sports magazines he had kept under his bed as a teen. Or worse, if Ben had.

He’d been lucky the Body Issue hadn’t been a thing back then.

”Can I turn this around, y’think?” he asked.

Heather laughed. ”Oh, honey, if you want to, I am _not_ stopping you.”

With a grin, Kent turned the hockey helmet covering his lap, visor now facing inwards.

A risk, far too fucking risky, but he was Kent fucking Parson, and he was still recovering from a rumoured-to-be nasty breakup. And he was a mouthy piece of shit. The grin turned to a smirk, aged and refined, chin up and hair muzzled. Purposefully, for once.

They took some normal shots, too, somewhere in between Kent gripping a stick stuck out between his legs and a dressing room shoot he tried not to think too hard about. A hockey glove came into use, as did a thigh, and a forearm. A puck between his teeth.

”Fabulous,” Heather said afterwards, earnest, as if Kent had done him an actual fucking favour. ”Fucking fabulous, darling. Thank you.”

”Anytime,” Kent winked back, making sure to throw out the napkin with a phone number scrawled onto it as soon as he made it to the lobby.

There were risks, and there were _risks_. Nine years, and he’d learned the fucking difference.

The pictures were sent to the Aces organisation, and Marina Teterya rolled her eyes at him from behind her burgundy-framed glasses. Nothing he thought much about at the time. Not until he was on another set, larger, more professional, with a little girl in pigtails in his lap and a couple of puppets pretending to sing a little further down the pretend-street.

A charm offensive, Marina had called it. Making sure everyone knew what he was doing during the off-season, and that it wasn’t anything stupid.

Even if it kind of was, but the childhood nostalgia was too strong for Kent to complain, memories of days spent in front of old TV’s and his parents fighting in the kitchen. The alphabet and numbers and being nice to others, and he sung along this time as he had almost twenty years prior, clapped with the kids and spoke to the puppets as if they were real. Smiled, and that was real.

The director yelled, and Kent cleared his throat, tried not to wince as the kid jumped off his lap and he stood back up. He’d have to visit the team chiropractor before training camps started.

”You really like those kids,” the producer commented as someone handed him a bottle of water, and Kent shrugged. Pretended he wasn’t pushing down the thought of fatherhood a little harder than usual. Not for him. Even if he wouldn’t run as soon as the job got too hard.

Not for him.

”Of course. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Kent smiled, then clapped his hands together, a little louder than necessary to the giggles of a couple kids looking their way. ”Now, whaddaya need me to do now?”

The woman smiled back, red lips stretching around impossibly straight teeth, and he should’ve known. ”Get in the trash can over there, please.”

The _bitch_

*

_H is for hockey, the sport that I play_.

Scraps put his phone back in his pocket beneath Carly’s snorts and Bubbles nearly tripping over his own feet. As if they weren’t on a rooftop on the fucking Strip and sober had left two hours past.

Still, Kent kept his face as neutral as possible as he watched himself pop up from a trash can with a banana peel on his head. Real, unfortunately, but Carly didn’t need to know that.

The kids had loved it.

”ESPN ran an entire story on it,” Swoops said from the side, one arm swung over Kent’s shoulders, the other holding a can of beer. ”You’re pretty fucking famous, Parser.”

”Pretty sure I’m more famous for playing hockey. Not singing about it.”

”’Singing’.” Greenberg snickered.

“As if you could do it any better. The kids would’ve run off screaming.”

”My kids watched the episode last week,” Smitty commented from the make-shift bar Kent had spent the morning meticulously setting up. ”Three times.”

” _Thank_ you, Brad.”

”I promised Rose I’d ask if you’d wear the banana peel at the next family skate,” Smitty continued. ”She said it matched your hair. Like a tiara.”

Next to him, Carly burst out laughing, nearly toppling down Rezzy in the process.

Kent made a mental note to ask about his wife when they were all sober again. Or not. They were the Las Vegas Aces. No one fucking asked.

”Fuck each and every one of you,” he said instead, pointing at each player in turn. ”You’re just jealous.”

“Fuck yeah, we are,” Tady said from the sidelines, and for a moment, a heartbeat before fireworks lit up the sky above and all else was drowned out, Kent couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

Not that it mattered.

Letting light shine on his face, reflect in the beer and scotch and whiskey and water, Kent downed the rest of whatever the fuck it was he had in his hand. Orange, as the sky lit up red. Blue as it lit up purple. So dark a brown it almost looked black in-between.

For another heartbeat, before another drink was stuck in his hand, he wondered if Jack was back home in Québec. Then the bitter burn of whiskey tore everything beneath his skin out, and he remembered that he didn’t care.

Remembered. Forgot. Same fucking thing.

*

The rookies were quiet that season. Five of them, one sent down the farm team before he even had a chance to step onto NHL ice, and perhaps that was why. The yearly nerves made infinitely worse.

At times, during the early training camps, Kent found himself eyeing them, waiting for one to just fucking deck another. Teenagers that quiet, he was ready for anything.

But nothing happened. A blessing from above, perhaps. If there was such a thing.

“The NHL’s not so different from Juniors,” he told them at some point, captain’s duties, front office’s orders. “The team’s still a team, even if we’re getting paid, so remember your teamwork, yeah? I know it’s tempting just to play for yourself, but it’s gonna work much better for ya to work with everyone else, and especially each other. Other than that, y’know the rules. Don’t hog the showers, clean up after yourselves, and don’t fuck someone else’s WAG. Or sister, or whatever. Don’ be a fucking douchebag.”

The rookies nodded, wide-eyed and quiet, and for the second times in two months, Kent found himself wondering if he’d looked that young four years past.

And it didn’t matter, because they were good, and he’d been, too. Baby fat and bad skin and constant bruises aside. They might only have to push two down to the farm team. Much better than the year before. One might even get ice time that season.

It had taken Kent a couple of seasons to realise just how outlandish his own rookie year had been. He’d decided not to dwell on it.

”You know I’m not gonna bite ya, right?” he asked one day in July, a little too close to August.

They nodded.

”Seriously, I’m not dangerous.”

Another round of nods.

”Aaand that’s getting creepy. Go home and lose your virginities or something.” He waved them off and headed out of the dressing room corridor. Behind him, equal parts spluttering and laughter could be heard, and Carly’s voice made itself distinguishable between the others. Or maybe Kent had just listened too intently after the first year they’d played together.

The past was in the past, he reminded himself. No need ripping the scab off. The scars would be too noticeable if he did, his Ma had always said.

If he had a drink that afternoon, no one needed to know. It was only one.

-/ \\-

How the Anaheim Ducks incident started, Kent had no idea. No one in the entire fucking league did.

It was a week into September the first time it happened, pre-season, somewhere in the beginning of third period, Aces 3:2, and Kent was following the advance of the puck towards the Ducks’ goal at a safe distance. Another point would cement the win, but focus was on keeping the puck. Showing off was good, but winning was better. Just off the blue line, Swoops made a sudden pass at Bubbles, and Kent stepped past a D-man. Wasted manpower, but that was their headache. Their forwards were making their way up, too, and if they wanted to score, they needed to do it fast. A sudden pass, a one-timer - 

Someone yelled, a whistle blew, and Kent came to a halt. Glancing back, he couldn’t help his eyebrows raising at the sight of Rezzy and a Duck forward, inches and miles from a fight. No dropped gloves, not even touching, just two grown-ass men screaming their heads off at each other in the middle of the ice.

”What the fuck,” Bubbles muttered to Kent’s right, and he could only agree. Watch as a lineman tried to get in the middle and was promptly shoved down on the ice.

“What the fuck?” someone yelled, and Kent reminded him to mind the mics. Scraps’, at least, who always forgot he was wearing one and promptly hid it beneath a glove. Too late, but Marina would have their backs. Always did.

At centre ice, a ref whistled out a penalty, and Rezzy was all but pushed into the sin bin, still yelling at the Duck being dragged into the other.

No one on the team spoke Spanish. The media did, though.

“Do you think miss Teterya’s killed him?” Greenberg whispered at practice a couple of days later, as if she could hear them through the walls, and perhaps she could. It was a bet in the dressing room, if that woman was a fucking psychic or something. A few guys refused to believe she was even human, and Kent couldn’t remember where he’d placed his money. Not after the look she’d shot him when he returned to the world of the living after -

”Naw,” Scrappy said. ”She’s not that bad.”

Twenty-something pairs of eyes turned to look at him, all caught somewhere between disbelief and worry.

“What? She’s nice.”

Kent patted his shoulder. “Sure is, buddy. Let’s get back to practice, yeah? If she’s burying a body, I don’t wanna know about it.”

Scrappy only looked more confused, but scrimmage started back up, and he had no choice but to follow along. Glance up with the rest of them half an hour later as Rezzy finally emerged, thin-lipped and with his shoulders by his ears. Shrugging off Carly’s hand on his shoulder, he stepped onto the ice and got into position, and any and all eyes left him. Returned to the game.

The Las Vegas spirit.

And perhaps that was a moment they should’ve stepped in – that _he_ should’ve stepped in, as captain, as a teammate – but no one did. It was Vegas, and no one asked. Not when Rezzy freaked out, or Kent had been a rookie, or when Sonny’s hands had shaken.

“Motherfuckers,” was all that was said. “Motherfuckers,” and a couple of free drinks, a slap on the back, and pre-season came to an end. The future was ahead, and the future was what they all looked at. Focused on. The real season.

There were games to win.

And games were won. A lot of them. A truly shocking fucking amount that left Kent dizzy when he looked at his stats and began to set a standard for the rest of the season that he prayed they could follow up on. Had he been a praying man.

The news cycle continued turning, and the Anaheim Ducks incident became past.

“Parse, three hattricks in three weeks, what’s your secret?”

Kent grinned, thin and stretched, so unwavering it was almost real. Behind him, Marina Teterya was a firm if silent presence, and there was no fucking up. “There isn’t any, most of our practices are public these days. Swing by and see sometime, yeah?”

“You officially broke the record of longest point streak in NHL history since the rule tweaks of the 90’s two games ago – in your lifetime – and you’re still scoring. How does that feel?”

“Pretty fu-, uh, great. Pretty great.” Kent laughed. “I don’t know, I don’t think that much about records and numbers when I’m on the ice, I don’t think anyone really does. There’s no time for that when you’ve got a game to win.”

“With the rule tweaks, evolution in equipment, and general change in the way professional hockey is played, it’s believed that no one will ever be able to reach the records held by the giants of the 80’s. Does that ever bother you?”

Kent shrugged. “Not really. Again, I don’t think much about numbers when I’m on the ice, and I don’t play for the fame. I just really love hockey – we all do. And, sure, there’s been a lot of changes, that’s how it goes with everything, with every sport, but it’s not something I think that much about.”

“Do you think you’re better now than, say, Gretzky or Lemieux or Zimmermann were in the 80’s?”

_Steady voice, steady hands._ “I can’t say. As has already been said, there’s been so much change to the game, the way it’s played and how, and trying to compare players now and then is too complicated to bother, I think. And it doesn’t much matter. They were amazing back in the eighties, and I’m doing pretty good now. What matters is that the play’s good to watch, and it still is.”

“Did you ever play against any of the giants when you were in Juniors?”

When you were friends with Jack Zimmermann went unsaid, when you were fucking him –

In the corner of his eye, Kent could see Marina Teterya glance his way, one wrong word away from ending the questions, diverting to someone else, but there was no need. “Can’t say I did.”

“If you were to play against a former NHL player, anyone, who would it be?”

Moving straight on, and that was new, too. “I don’t know - “ He grinned. “ - maybe Dylan Perrault.”

Marina Teterya didn’t flinch, because she wasn’t fucking human, but it was as close as it got. An open secret, then, or something that was easy to figure out if you knew what to look for.

“A goalie? Not another forward?”

“Don’t get me wrong, that could be fun, too, but I think I’d like a direct match best. And I think it’d be the most fun to watch.”

“Who do you think would win?”

“Me, for sure.” At the vultures’ laugh, Kent joined in. “Not ‘cause of the change in game, more ‘cause I’ve played against this fu- fella - “ he slapped Pops’ back. “ - for too long.”

“Would you say playing with Popovich is one of the reasons behind your point streaks?”

Kent shrugged. “Can’t do it without my boys. Speaking of, they’d probably like a question, too, if you’ve got any. I’m not the only Ace here.”

“Sure fucking seems like it sometimes,” Bubbles muttered, and Kent kicked him under the table. Hoped the microphones didn’t pick that up.

“One last question for Parson, if that’s alright.”

Danielle Macmillan, always her, serious skirt suits and serious ponytail and serious blue eyes turned first to Marina, then, at her nod, to Kent, who sat up a little straighter. Slumped again as soon as he noticed.

“ESPN published an article a couple of days ago ranking all currently active hockey players. You placed second, with James Traverne in first. The article has since been heavily criticised for aforementioned list, with most of the criticism pointing out that Traverne’s only advantage is that he’s played in the league for sixteen seasons, and you only four. What are your thoughts on the article, as well as the criticism?”

_Second place: Kent Parson, born 4th of July 1990 in New York City. Drafted first onto the Rimouski Océanics, 2006-2009, then into the NHL by the newly-established Las Vegas Aces. Holder of two Stanley Cups in four seasons and numerous records, including youngest American-born captain in NHL history. He is commonly considered the reason for the Las Vegas Aces going from the very bottom to the very top of the league in only a couple of seasons, however, as a new team, it is impossible to place all credit on Parson. Still, there can be little doubt that he is indeed ‘the talent of a generation’, as previously established, as well as a household name in both American and international hockey._

Everything Traverne had done, he’d done younger.

He didn’t care about what was written about him, all he cared about was the play.

They were all just playing the game, and as long as it was good to watch, that was all that mattered. He had no interest in being part of a rivalry, and he didn’t think Traverne did, either.

Traverne with no point streaks longer than eighteen games. No C until he was twenty-three.

No golden rookie.

“I’m afraid I haven’t actually read that article, Dani,” Kent said, shoulders relaxed and expression neutral. “I’ve heard some of the criticism, but I don’t feel like I can cast judgement without having read it. Sorry. All I can say is, James Traverne’s an amazing player, an inspiration to me growing up, for sure, and that I’m even put in the same category as him is a fu-, uh, an incredible honour.”

“And that was the last question for Parson,” Marina interrupted before any more could flow in. A double-defence, but better safe than sorry. Was what he’d say if she asked him afterwards, but she didn’t. Never fucking did.

“Carlsberg, you haven’t scored a single goal yet this season. Having turned thirty last year, does this worry you?”

Kent winced, Bubbles, too, but Carly grinned. “Fuck no.”

And Marina looked ready to kill, and everything was normal again.

“Motherfuckers,” Scraps said afterwards, slapped Kent’s back, and he huffed in agreement. “They’ll figure out you’re better one day.”

“They already know it.”

Scraps blinked. “They do?”

“Obviously. There’d be no drama if there wasn’t doubt that he was better than me. Y’ask me, they probably put me second on purpose.”

Too thick, but Scraps’ eyes widened. “Really?”

“Drama, man. They’ve got magazines to sell. Or clicks, or whatever. Ads. There won’t be any of that without drama. ‘s why they’re so interested in our private lives, too.”

Scraps’ mouth formed to an ‘o’. “That makes sense.”

“Sure does. And when they can’t find anything, they make it up. Nothing like a spicy rumour to boost sales. Or clicks.”

“That what happened with you and Zimmermann back in the day?”

Eight and a half years, and Kent didn’t stumble. Swallowed and blinked, sure, but not a flinch. “Probably, yeah. Zimms was easy meat.”

Scraps nodded. “Speaking of, I got this high-end beef delivered yesterday, some wagu shit - “

“Wagyu? Fuck, showing off, man.”

“ - wagyu, yeah, some of that. I was gonna make some tonight, Swoops and Jonesy and Burlap are coming, too. You know. Us single guys.”

Mackenzie. Nurse. Two years together.

Shit he got to share.

Ignoring the pain in his ribs, Kent knocked their shoulders together. “I think I’ve got some sake lying around somewhere. I’ll bring it by.”

Scraps’ shoulders fell an inch or two. “Thanks, Parse.”

“Sure thing, man.”

-/ \\-

The Anaheim Ducks pulled up again in the first days of December, a dark spot on the edge of the calendar that left eyes glancing towards Rezzy in the dressing room, his name whispered in the corridors and emails Kent didn’t have access to but knew the presence of anyway. Closer and closer, and Rezzy ignored it all, kept his eyes on the bench and on the ice, and no one asked, because no one ever did.

When the day came, there was no change to find in the dressing room. Unless you knew what to look for, and Kent looked away.

None of his business.

Burke still left Rezzy on the bench for the first period. Smart move, but nothing that mattered in the slightest as the puck dropped and a Duck checked Scraps into the boards.

The vultures had all been frothing at the mouths.

They could froth over Kent’s goals. Or come on them, he didn’t fucking care.

Between the pipes, the goalie had dropped down, legs to the side, eyes on Kent. Nothing on Swoops or Carly advancing with him, neither touching the puck but sure spots of black in the corners of his eyes that could grab a puck or push someone into the glass if need be.

It was in moments like that, when their play ascended from individual chaos to something resembling teamwork that he felt fucking invincible.

Passing the puck to Swoops, Kent broke their formation. The goalie didn’t startle, because he was a fucking professional, but it was a close fucking thing, and Kent reached the side of the offensive zone because he could reposition himself. One brief pass, a slapshot, a one-timer, and they’d be 3-1. A firm lead in second period, the beginning of a secure win. Another tick to Swoops’ point streak.

And a failure.

The D-man didn’t come out of nowhere, nothing ever did on the ice, but he came fresh off the bench in an exchange even Kent had to admit was remarkable, in Swoops’ face before the Aces had a chance to reposition themselves. From his spot near the boards, Kent could see Swoops eyes widen, but there was little either could do. Not until Carly came in, forcing the fucker into the boards before the puck could be lost to the second one moving in. Seconds, and it was nothing close to slow-motion, hockey never fucking was, and there was no time to dwell. As the Duck moved in, and Kent ran just behind him, Swoops did an almost ballerina-like twirl around the both of them, another as they went down in a mess of limbs, and the goalie threw himself down.

An odd-looking goal, but a goal nonetheless, and Kent was up before the Duck could collect himself enough to reach him. Further what was happening by the boards.

”Can’t chirp me for being a figure skater anymore, can you?” Swoops asked by the boards afterwards while the refs were discussing what to do with Carly. And the Duck.

”’course we fucking can,” Kent said. ”Y’fucking pansy.”

With a grin, Swoops returned to the face-off circle, a firm presence in the corner of Kent’s eyes, and he owed him a Golden Knights’ game.

Later.

The Ducks set into an offence almost as soon as the puck dropped, a firm formation and passes even Kent had to respect. Timed and coordinated, the puck narrowly missed by Ace sticks on its way to another Duck, back and forth until Scrappy got in the way – an accident, most likely, but a precious one – and swiftly passed it to Swoops. Another swirl, the fucking show-off, and the puck passed centre ice before the Ducks could turn, and the D-men returned to the goalie. The puck was lost, and they had their orders. Stringent and predictable, and that would be their downfall.

Receiving the puck from Bubbles’ stick, Kent made a beeline for the goal. Swift and obvious, Swoops and Rezzy coming in from the sides. Who would make the goal would be up to the fates, coincidence and opportunity, and Kent passed swiftly back to Bubbles further down before crossing the blue line, perfectly in time with the puck now with Swoops. Another pass, and the goalie had dropped down, one D-man advancing towards him, the other towards Swoops.

Rezzy it was then.

A swift glance, no no-look, never again, and Kent raised his stick, eyes on the goalie, three seconds from a collision. Two, one - 

The puck left his stick by a flick of the wrist, hidden as he threw himself to the side, narrowly missing the fucker between the pipes. An instinctive step to the side, a hole above his shoulder easier to score on than a fucking barn door. The D-man on Kent was closing in, but the goal horn would blare first, save him the check.

Pain shot down Kent’s arm as the fucker’s stick hit his elbow, seconds from plowing him into the ice, only narrowly avoided by throwing himself down. His helmet left his head on impact, rolled a feet or two, and finally, there was noise.

A whistle.

Yelling.

Pushing himself off into a sitting position, Kent watched the chaos on the blue line, Aces and Ducks pulling, linemen closing in, fists flying. Gloves on the ice.

Suárez that short-tempered, _useless_ motherfucker.

There were more words, things he’d love little more than to scream into the moron’s face, fists he’d love to join in with, but they had a period left, down a goal, and Kent had a point streak to defend. What little honour the Aces had left. If they’d ever had any, and they wouldn’t after this.

A black glove reached down, and Kent sent the Duck a surprised look, turned it grateful as he was pulled onto his feet.

“The fuck’s their fucking problem,” Jensen muttered – forward, 34, All-Stars 2012.

“I’ve got no _fucking_ clue,” Kent muttered back and picked up his helmet. Watched with everyone else as the two were pulled apart, finally, both sent to their respective sin bins before the verdict was even given. Not that it was any question.

One more shift before returning to the bench, and Kent shot Rezzy a sharp look, but the fucker looked the other way. Sneered at a spectator yelling at him from the stands, and a lineman waved Kent towards the face-off circle. With one last glare at Rezzy, he went. Bent down. Shot.

Ran.

And stepped off the ice with a broken stick and a firm set to his jaw. No breaking while there were still cameras at large. Vultures.

“Parson - “

Turning a corner, Kent upped his speed. Fifteen feet to the tunnel entrance, three to the nearest teammate. Lutz. Nothing of note all season. Nothing of interest, not next to a broken point streak. Twenty-three games. Twenty-three _fucking_ games, and this time - 

“Parson!”

Kent let the tunnel swallow him up, walked exactly five feet before grabbing Rezzy by the jersey. Had he been fifty pounds bigger, the fucker would’ve been slammed against the wall, but he wasn’t, and Rezzy knew it. And he was still captain. Whatever the fuck that was going to mean.

”Don’t pull that fucking shit again, y’hear me?”

He nearly took a step back when Rezzy’s eyes hit his, filled with more anger than he’d ever seen from him before. If anyone. ”Why, you feeling hit, _puto_?”

Not that fear was something Kent could show. ”You can call me whatever the fuck y’want, Suárez, but that shit’s gonna blow up, and y’know it. You’re bringing everyone down ’cause y’can’t control yourself, is that whatcha want?”

Rezzy shrugged him off. ”Fuck you, Parson.”

”No, fuck _you_ , Suárez!”

And it was no use, because Rezzy was already walking towards the dressing room, one gloveless hand raised with the middle finger in the air, not even a glance back, and had Kent been those fifty pounds heavier, the fucker would be going down.

But he wasn’t.

And there was no need.

Luis Suárez wasn’t pulled from the team, wasn’t sent down to the farm team, and wasn’t kept on the bench for a single game longer than the NHL had declared. Because Luis Suárez was too fucking good a player for anyone to suggest he should be, and had been on the team for too fucking long to get the fans on board with the idea. They were playing almost full rinks now, regularly, just as much outsiders in the city for a weekend or a bachelor party or a mess as actual Las Vegans. Nevadans, even. It wasn’t worth trying to keep something stable, build up a firm foundation of fans, that wasn’t how the fucking city worked, but still the front office tried. And Luis Suárez was a part of that. A big part. The same way Alistair Manson had been before he was made a free agent and before he retired and before he moved back to fuckwhere, Ontario, back when they were still soft and malleable. Before Parson became the name of their game.

Luis Suárez wouldn’t be pulled from the team, and he wouldn’t be sent down, and he wouldn’t be made a free agent. Not until his contract ran out, at least. And in the painfully broken silence of the dressing room, where eyes wandered and returned to their proper places and not even Kent’s jokes could elicit anything real, no one knew it better than Luis Jorge Suárez.

-/ \\-

”Dude, you can’t keep brushing off the media like that,” Smitty chastised at the family skate a couple of days later. His face was serious, more so than Kent usually saw him, but it was difficult to take seriously with the pigtailed, pink-clad four-year old on his arm, trying to push off his cap. Every other sentence, he had to remove one arm from under her to push the hat back on.

”Whaddaya mean?”

”You’re the captain,” Smitty continued. ”You have a responsibility. The shy violet play was cute when you were younger, but you have to step into the role at some point. Not avoid every single journalist you come across and only answer questions when they’re literally trapping you. They won’t if you don’t run, you know.”

Kent shrugged. ”I don’t know, man, I still think I’m cute. Do you think I’m cute, Rose?”

On Smitty’s arm, the girl smiled and nodded. Pulled at her father’s cap.

”See, she thinks I’m cute.”

”She’s a little too young to think about boys,” Smitty grumbled and hugged his daughter tighter to his side. ”Her opinion doesn’t count.”

”’course it does,” Kent said. Pulled gently on the girl’s pigtail. ”You count, don’tcha, Rosie?”

She nodded, hid her grin in her father’s shoulder.

”Think about it, Parser,” Smitty said. ”At some point, you’ll have PR on your a – butt about it, and they won’t be as nice as I am.”

Kent opened his mouth to retaliate - _PR doesn’t care what I do, the Aces don’t work like the Sabres_ \- but was cut off by Rose’s shrill voice, shouting for all to hear. ”H is for hockey!”

The smile on his face stiffened. ”Hasn’t she forgotten that yet?”

Smitty grinned. ”I make sure she watches it at least twice a month. It’s her favourite episode!”

”Jesus Christ in a bucket of slime,” Kent muttered, immediately smiled as Rose Smith stuck out her pudgy little arms towards him. Raising an eyebrow at Smitty, who nodded, he accepted her with an exaggerated huff. ”You’re getting kinda big, kiddo. Still like me better than your daddy, though, don’tcha?”

A thoughtful look came over her four-year old features, followed by a shake of her head that bounced her pigtails into Kent’s face for additional hurt. He gasped dramatically, made a show of moving her closer to Smitty, who opened his arms. ”Well, why don’tcha go back to him, then, if ya love ’im more?”

With a loud giggle, she clung to him tighter.

”So ya love me more, huh? Say ya love me more!”

She continued giggling, clung with her tiny arms around his neck.

”If ya say ya love me more, I’ll buy ya ice cream.”

”I love Kent!”

Too close to his ear, shrill, enough to make a grin spread on Kent’s face that was swiftly turned into a smirk. ”Of course ya do. ’cause I’m the best.”

Smitty rolled his eyes. ”Get your own kid, Parser. And don’t fu- don’t evade my advice, I’m trying to do you a favour here.”

“I talk to journos.”

“At pressers, yeah. And in the dressing room, but when you’re not literally forced, you - “

”Daddy, I wanna skate!”

Kent raised his eyebrows. ”Duty calls, buddy.”

With a glare, Smitty took his daughter back, covered her ears with the arm not under her butt. ”Not your fucking buddy, cap.”

Removing his arm from her ears and giving her a bright smile, Smitty walked into the ice.

Kent loved family skates. Never a boring moment. Especially not in the days leading up to Christmas, where games and presents and stressed-out WAG’s were all juggled above unforgiving ice.

Yet again, a more and more frequent happening, Kent was almost happy he was what he was. So much less drama to deal with.

The NHL gave him plenty of that. And when it didn’t, Vegas stepped right up.

He left the family skate not too early, not too late, alone save for a Christmas cookie stolen off the front desk stuffed in his pocket and a whistle on his lips. The song’s name escaped him, as did the artist’s, but it had come onto the radio once, and he’d been hit with the heaviest sense of déjà vu he’d ever experienced.

The whistling came to a stop as soon as he entered the parking garage.

Once, Scrappy had sworn he’d once seen Marina Teterya turn 90 degrees and head into a sex shop to avoid passing him in the street. Kent still wasn’t sure if that had been her plan, or if Scrappy just needed a pat on the back and a ”sure”.

But there she was, stilettos and tartan dress and leaning against his car.

”Am I in trouble?”

She gave him a look. ”No. I just wanted to know, do I need to worry about you?”

Kent blinked.

”For Christmas,” she continued when his answer didn’t come swift enough.

Impatient bitch. Impatient, highly qualified, out-of-shit-pulling bitch. ”Of course not.”

”So no more pictures of you in front of places I don’t need you to be in front of?”

“I promise, if an old friend of mine asks for help in a difficult time, I’ll turn him right down.”

She glared, but it was enough. Apparently. Who fucking knew with bitches like her. “Good. I can’t fucking believe you’re the one I’ve had to worry the least about this season.”

“Yeah, neither can I.”

Apparently satisfied, the _bitch_ , Marina walked off, hips swinging and heels clacking.

Kent slammed the door behind him.

Forty games in three months. Twenty-eight wins, twelve losses. Forty-three points to Kent’s name, ninety-eight for the Aces in total. One major PR scandal, two minor ones, and they burned through it all.

And he would burn even stronger in the months to come.

”Whatcha looking at?”

Looking up, Kent automatically turned off his phone. ”Just checking if the Olympic roster had been made public yet.”

His Ma’s eyebrows shot up. ”And has it?”

“Not yet. Prolly won’t be ‘til New Year’s, but I thought it was worth a check.”

She nodded and sat down next to him by the kitchen table. From the living room, the noise of the babies playing with their new toys could be heard, occasionally joined by Ben’s laughter. Christmas memories. His, too.

“Do ya think you’ll be on it?”

Kent grinned.

-/ \\-

”Look who’s fucking here! The fucking _Olympian_!”

Coming to a halt by the wall where he’d tried to sneak past unnoticed, Kent threw on his best grin. ”Jeez, say it a little louder and they’ll hear ya in Sochi.”

Carly grinned, wide and dangerous. Inhaled. ”KENT FUCKING PARSON, OUR CAPTAIN AND SAVIOUR IS GOING TO THE MOTHERFUCKING OLYMPICS GAMES IN MOTHERFUCKING _RUSSIA_!”

And fags were supposed to be the dramatic ones.

”Really?”

”Fucking hell, Parser.”

”He will have ass kicked.” At the eyes suddenly on him, Pops shrugged.

Tady made a face. ”’course he won’t! He’s playing on team US of fucking A!”

Swoops let out a low whistle. ”Not a chance.”

“Won’t stand a fucking chance against Canada,” Carly agreed. “But we’re s’posed to be a little fucking supportive here, yeah?”

”Make us proud, cap!” Rezzy yelled. ”Bang some fucking - ”

”Oh my God!” Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned to Scrappy, standing as still as a statue in his corner of the dressing room with wide eyes and his shirt half-off. Raising his head, he looked each of them in the eyes simultaneously. ”Captain. America.”

The noise was indescribable. Kent almost wished himself back at his Ma’s place, surrounded by four- and six year-olds. At least they knew what an indoor voice was. Most of the time.

”Fourth of July!” Carly yelled.

”Blonde!” Rezzy grinned.

”Your Ma’s name’s Sarah, right?” Smitty asked.

”I bet Parser used to wear newspapers in his shoes, too.” Swoops turned to him. ”Didn’t you?”

“You know I didn’t get the C, right? I got the - “

“A, we know, don’t fucking worry ‘bout it man.” Carly slapped his shoulder. “They’ll realise their mistake soon enough.”

A roar of laughter tore through the room, and Kent joined in, smile pulling at the skin. ”Fuck literally all of you.”

Carly winked. ”You wish, Parser.”

And he had once, hadn’t he?

Four years. Thank fuck he’d grown the fuck up.

The commentators had been made official along with the rosters, two per country, old players and older names. Bad Bob Zimmermann. Once was a fun idea. Twice, it was beginning to look like tradition.

And nothing he was going to think any more about. He had training to do. Training and games and All-Stars, preparations for training camps. Actual training camps, with new guys for the first time in years, men he’d have to get used to, figure out the strengths of, blend in with for a month before it was back to killing each other on the ice.

First time. Not the last.

”There he is!” a man in a dark navy suit sang as Kent entered ”The biggest douche in the universe ~ ”

”Fuck you, too, Malcolm,” Kent grinned, bag thrown over his shoulder and tie slightly askew. ”Good to see y’haven’t lost any of your cushioning.”

”Wouldn’t be able to check you hard enough without it,” Malcolm replied, patting himself on his stomach.

”Y’gotta catch me first.”

”We get it, you’re fast, thank you, Parson,” a tall, older man interrupted from the corner of the dressing room. ”Now that we’re all here, how ‘bout you speed up that changing, eh?”

”Training his doggos well,” Sorensen muttered to Kent’s right, and he hummed.

“’Eh?’ The fuck, I thought he was American,” Malcolm said.

“Half, I think,” Antognazza replied, words half-drowned by the jersey he was pulling over his head and letting fall to the edge of his still-exposed jockstrap.

Kent looked away. Caught Jensen’s eyes and raised his eyebrows, eliciting a snort from the other man that made a couple of heads swivel their way. They each turned back to their own stalls, Kent’s eyes firmly on the bench.

On the ice, though, he could watch. Stay by the sidelines, draw up every bite of tape he’d crammed the couple of weeks after the roster was released, the notes he’d written, the plays the coaching staff had thrown around in the dressing room. They weren’t the eighties, but they were well put-together, equal parts defence and offence, good players that worked well with others and didn’t just think of their own glory as soon as they hit ice. Gold was probably out of reach. Bronze wasn’t.

The puck bounced off the goalie’s glove, and Kent was in before Schneider could step forward, a flick of the wrist and a well-placed side-step. No horn, not in practice, only the lightest of hip-checks, and Kent knew he’d be alright.

For the month. Come March, they’d stumble over each other’s skates to fuck him over, fuck him right in the fucking ass, and he’d be ready.

*

The Olympic Village in Sochi was colder than the Devil’s heart and twice as fake. Stepping off the shuttle, Kent immediately regretted not wearing a second jacket but bit down a shiver and trotted along with everyone else, through snow and small talk and guides speaking little to no English. The building, at least, was warm, and Kent made a note not to leave it too much. There was no need to, even if the official implied otherwise with the contents of one of the bedside tables. Singles, and that was probably a good idea, too.

Thirty-eight condoms, Kent counted, quietly closing the drawer after snapping a picture or two.

[parse] thought id miss u fuckers but maybe not

On his bed, his phone began to ping, a couple right after each other, and Kent grinned.

A good idea, even if it wasn’t for him. The Olympics were an honour if there ever was one. Better get the most out of it as possible. Positive international relations and all that. Make all the memories you could.

And others were as much for him as everyone else. The opening ceremony, for one, he realised as soon as he stepped out. Something he’d never forget for as long as he lived.

The crowd was loud, drunk on booze or adrenaline or both, and in the middle of it, dressed in the same atrocious red, white and navy jacket with toques matching in a way they really shouldn’t, he was simultaneously as invisible and visible as he’d ever be. If he was lucky, a camera would pick him up somewhere, and if he checked the Aces’ website in the morning, he’d be there.

But he wouldn’t, he realised with a clarity that shocked the breath out of him. He wouldn’t look at the Aces until the month was up, because he was at the fucking Olympics, surrounded by people he’d never know but who also knew him better than anyone. Who’d fought same as him, for years after years after years to be exactly where they were: in the middle of the crowd among hundreds or thousands of others, watched by hundreds of thousands around the world. Representing their country. Waving and cheering, some dancing, in pairs, in groups, alone – but never truly, ’cause they were all in it together, from the hockey players Kent was migrating from with every step to the women’s bob sledding team to the skiers. In that moment, in how long it took to walk the stadium, to watch and be watched by lights that could be cameras or fireworks or something else entirely, and didn’t matter in the slightest, they were in it together. A dressing room’s brotherhood, and in the morning they’d slaughter each other and fuck away the blood until nothing was left but loss and victory and memories, and they would all leave again, but that was centuries away. Millennia. For now, they were walking, eighty-eight nations, almost 2900 athletes, in a country that would see Kent dead and didn’t exist, because nothing did. There were colours, flags, front and centre and as unimportant as the millions of eyes on them, scrutinising every move and seeing nothing and everything of what had come before. What would come after. What had been and would never be.

It was everything Kent had dreamed of, and it wasn’t. Because despite it all, the noise and the celebration and the feeling like his chest was going to burst, his eyes still found red jackets and black trousers, and for the slightest fractions of seconds, every once in a while, he thought he saw something. Brown hair, dark enough to look black unless you got close enough. Droopy, blue eyes. Cheekbones to die for and an ass worthy of a god. For the slightest parts of seconds, every once in a while, Kent couldn’t breathe at the unborn thought of facing Jack on Olympic ice, each wearing their country’s colours and pride. It wouldn’t matter who won, they’d both make their countries proud. He knew they would.

But before the thoughts ever fully bloomed, Kent remembered, and the smile on his face faltered at the edge.

Another place Jack should’ve been and wasn’t.

Yet.

The grin returned, brighter and wider, and he waved at the crowd made invisible by the lights until his arm began to ache and he thought he caught a glimpse of dark hair, blue eyes, and cold-stained cheeks among the red and black.

_”Non, cette année pas, hélas! Il a ses études et son team, et Vancouver était - “_

And then it was over. Just like that. Done.

”I can’t believe I just did that,” a young woman breathed next to him. Her friend laughed and leaned down to hug her. Or, Kent assumed he was her friend. It was the Olympics. Who knew. Still, they stood like that for a moment, laughing or crying into each other’s shoulders.

”Jesus, it was just walking.”

Short, dark hair, the look of a college athlete in her eyes. A figure most of Kent’s teammates would find it difficult to look away from. Probably. Who fucking knew with straight men.

“Elise Tanaka.” She stuck out her hand, and Kent shook it. “I apologise in advance.”

“Kent Parson. For what?”

She shrugged. “Our rooms’re next to each other. You’re prolly gonna hear some shit.”

“We could make some noise together, if you’d like.”

Instinct, at this point, just on the right side of fucking awkward, and Elise Tanaka grimaced. ”Fuck you, too, buddy. Also, you’re too short for me. Better luck next time.”

Kent opened his mouth to retaliate, flirt, chirp, but a hand on his shoulder cut him off. ”There y’are. We thought we’d lost ya or somethin’.”

Clover, forward, Sharks, teammate. Right. Kent huffed. ”You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

”You can introduce me to some of your teammates, though,” Tanaka whispered as Clover turned his back again to yell something at the others. ”I’ll find some figure skater for you in return.”

”What, got a thing for hockey players?”

“I like the sport. See ya ‘round, Parse.” With a nod, she walked off, too, disappeared in the sea of red, white, and blue in a blink of an eye.

“Bro, you coming or what?”

Kent looked back. “Shit, you weren’t serious ‘bout that partying earlier, were ya?”

Clover frowned. “’course we were. Fuck, we’ve got six fucking days ‘til Slovakia, you expectin’ us to just lay low ‘til then?”

Something like laughter threatened to surface, disbelief, and Kent smirked, “’course not. I was just worried, old guys like you, you might wanna go to bed early.”

The laughter spilled, and Kent grinned with him. “Fuck you, man. Come on, let’s get fucking laid!”

“Sure,” Kent said, word swallowed by the never-ending noise around them, thousands of athletes, far less in the bar they ended up in. Or club. Whatever the fuck you were supposed to call a room smack in the middle of the Olympic Village reeking of beer and sweat and sex, the purpose of which seemed to be fulfilling the promise made by the provided condoms.

For some, at least.

Downing the last of the beer in his glass, Kent nodded at a lady across the bar dressed to the nines in athletic clothes and the unmistakable jacket of the Kazakhstani team tied around her waist. There was a flush to her cheeks, a few strands of hair escaping from a loose braid down her back, and should one of his teammates return to the bar they’d abandoned like rats from a sinking ship, he knew the ropes.

Glancing at the couple of American jackets in the crowd, he figured they wouldn’t. Not a single pair of eyes on him, and if he left, they wouldn’t notice. Across the bar, the Kazakhstani lady got to her feet, too, put on her jacket and slipped out. He could always say - 

“Shit, Parse!”

Kent turned, caught eyes with a man in light blue pants and a white t-shirt stretched in a way that made his throat go dry. The scotch, he decided, not the man, blond, brown eyes, and he’d seen him before, although where - 

New York. 2012, and Kent pulled up a smirk. “Shit, Bear, didn’t know you’d qualified.”

“Holm was injured,” Bjørnholt admitted, and Kent snorted.

“Explains it, then.”

“Fuck you, we can’t all break records.”

“I wish y’would, it’s kinda lonely at the top.”

“You should challenge Traverne, then.”

“He’d probably love that.”

“No, he’d shit his pants in fear.”

“Probably. You here with your team?”

Bjørnholt nodded. “I think most have left. I was going to, too.”

Kent hummed. “Not a fan of partying?”

“No, I am.” Too hurried, and Kent glanced over. “This just, øh, isn’t really my scene.”

“What, bars?”

Bjørnholt shook his head. “I don’t mind bars. Just not this one. And I was thinking - “ He glanced around.

“What?”

Warm brown eyes met his, wide and far too serious. “I was thinking this might not be your scene, either. That’s why I came over.”

Kent’s hand tightened on his empty glass. “The fuck d’ya mean by that?”

“Nothing.” Hurried again, and what had coiled itself in Kent’s stomach nine years ago tightened. “I’m just saying, I’m going somewhere else now. You’re welcome to come with, if you think you might like it better, too.”

A trap, possibly. First thought. Bjørnholt was low on the NHL pecking order, bouncing from team to team to farm team and back again, never enough goals for loyalty. Someone Kent wouldn’t spare a second thought if on the Aces, far less visible than he was. There could be anger, resentment, the usual disgust always looming in shadows and corners and the edges of Kent’s vision. Rumours that had never been fully disputed. Mostly forgotten, but … but they were at the Olympics. They’d worked together for four months, changed together with even less discomfort than Kent had experienced his first couple of years in the Aces. And there were rumours pushing in the back of his consciousness, heard in passing and just out of grasp. Never fully disputed.

Grabbing his jacket from the back of the stool he’d flung it over as soon as the heat of too many bodies in too small a place got to him, Kent stood, and Bjørnholt followed a second later, a constant and not-quite menacing presence at his back, pushed to the wall as soon as the door shut behind them, and the cold began to set in.

“It’s every time, from what I know,” Bjørnholt said before Kent could throw a question in his face. Not as stupid as he looked, then. “In Vancouver, it was arranged, too, and I’ve heard about it from Torino and Salt Lake City. I wasn’t sure there’d be something in Russia, but, øh, there is. Secret, of course. No one’s finding out. It’s not like any of us are out or anything.”

The last part was quiet, almost too quiet for Kent to hear, and a shiver ran down his spine. “How didja know?”

Bjørnholt looked uncomfortable. Six feet, seven inches and two hundred and fifty pounds of uncomfortable. Even if Kent wasn’t touching him anymore. ”I didn’t.”

”Then why the fuck are you outing yourself to another fucking hockey player when we’re in fucking _Russia_?”

”There were those rumours - “

”Let me get this straight. You outed yourself. In Russia. To another hockey player. Because there were rumours about him in Juniors.”

”Øh. Yes? Also, when we were in New York, you had that friend, the one who you sometimes walked to the rink with but never mentioned … “

_Unless you knew what to look for_.

Kent glanced around. ”And how do I know you aren’t lying to me?”

Bjørnholt opened his mouth, but swiftly shut it again. Kent could almost see the cogs turning in his head, matching the frustrated noise in the back of his throat and the sudden lunge forward, cold and chapped lips on his face. There was no doubt they’d been heading for his mouth, found it, too, after a moment, and Kent should push him back, they were outside, they were in fucking _Russia_ , and they were firmly alone, and it had been so long.

He could have a moment.

Without thinking too hard about it, and before Bjørnholt got the chance to pull away, Kent grabbed him by the shirt and angled his face to better press their lips together. Under his hands, Bjørnholt relaxed. Responded.

And knew what he was doing, Jesus _Christ_ \- 

Kent pulled back. ”That proves it, I think.”

”You believe me,” a pair of big, brown doe eyes asked. Or the mouth. Probably the mouth.

Kent licked his lips. ”Yeah, I believe you. Lead the way.”

They were alone still, alone in the snow beginning to fall, and Bjørnholt hesitated just long enough for Kent to consider pulling him to his room, but turned before he could suggest it. And Kent followed this time.

“We’re never doing that again.”

Bjørnholt looked over his shoulder. “ - probably a good idea.”

If there was disappointment, Kent didn’t see it. Or care. There were more important things to focus on, lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and a new building emerging from the snow.

“It’s always the same country hosting,” Bjørnholt told him, Kent made note of the flag hanging from a window further up the building. “I don’t think it’s official, though.”

A tradition. Before Grindr and Tinder, and all the other apps Kent didn’t dare use and which had been proven unsafe in London by a motherfucker whose name Kent wanted to spit on. A lesson learned, it seemed, as their phones were taken by the entrance by a surprisingly professional-looking bouncer speaking no English and checking their athlete ID twice. No pictures. No vultures.

Something that could almost be safety, and Kent felt his shoulders fall and inch or so as he and Bjørnholt moved into the mass of people. Team jackets here and there, fewer than in the bar they’d left. It made sense, he supposed. They were in Russia.

And even there were places to relax. An eye in the hurricane with some sort of European pop thing having undergone severe techno treatment seeping through it all. Not bad to dance to, and people did. More than he’d considered, but that, too, made sense. Almost three thousand athletes five, ten percent of the population? Perhaps two hundred in total, less present, and again, Kent was as visible and invisible as he’d ever be.

Once, more than once, Bad Bob had told them about playing in the Olympics. Always with the same glint in his eyes, the beginning of a smile he didn’t seem to notice. Games and women and camaraderie and Alicia coming to cheer him on. Jack, too, as a toddler. Albertville. Something he’d never forget, unless Alzheimer’s took him the same way it had Laurent Zimmermann.

And for a brief moment, caught between the opening ceremony and this, Kent understood.

To his right, Bjørnholt said something.

“What?”

Bjørnholt bent down to Kent’s ear.

”WHAT?”

He gave up, and Kent couldn’t blame him.

They entered the moving crowd together, shoulder bumping together at every step, eventually joined by anonymous shoulders. In a matter of seconds, Kent had to look around to see him. Within minutes, he was completely out of sight despite his staggering height, and Kent found himself with a man’s arm around his waist, no jacket, a glint in his eyes, and, with a brief look around, Kent shrugged and let himself be drawn in.

Almost a year, and it was like riding a bike.

When the song changed, the man was gone. Kent shrugged. Life.

The drinks were different, though. Free, for one, weaker, for two. Perhaps the language barrier, perhaps the fact that they were all there for a reason. It didn’t matter. Alcohol was alcohol, and he didn’t fucking care.

The dance floor was more active than the bar they’d left, more like the bars he’d gone to on his own, well-known and welcoming. A place to leave Kent Parson behind and become just another face in the crowd, another ass to grab, and Kent could drown in it.

Perhaps that was how it was for all of them, for once, but there was no room for questions, and Kent wouldn’t know how to ask them even if there was. Instead, there were men, tall and short and fit, another Norwegian, a British guy whispering into his ear, a Frenchman, a Canadian kissing his throat. He pushed that one away, gave him a quick kiss in apology and moved on. The next one was shorter than him, jacket-less, probably some kind of skater judging by the shape of his lower b. Great dancer, too. Definitely a skater, and Kent snickered at the memory of Elise Tanaka’s words earlier that day. Or late the night before.

The guy in his arms frowned, all heavy brows and serious eyes, and Kent kissed it away, moved until they were chest to back and he could run his hands down the exposed skin of the guy’s forearms. His mouth moved to the back of his neck, pressing in kisses interrupted by thin hands before any bruises could begin to bloom. A pianist’s hands, Sister Frances would’ve said. Good for a lot of things. Like sliding through his hair, he found, and deepened the kiss. There would be no bruises on either of them when they were done, if they stayed or left, but his scalp would ache, and he pressed them closer together. The lips against his were soft, contrasting with the kiss itself in a way that settled deeply in Kent’s lower belly, and he was about to move to the guy’s ear, suggest entering the cold of the outside world for a little while, when a cheer ran through the crowd, and the guy pulled away. They were still touching, and Kent leaned in again, but the guy’s head was turned toward the sound, and Kent figured cheek-kissing probably wasn’t appropriate. Instead, he kissed his neck, pulled away completely as another cheer tore through the crowd.

A tango, if he knew his dances correctly. Two Swiss team jackets, both abandoned mid-swing to a captivated crowd not caring in the slightest that the music hadn’t changed, that tangos usually weren’t danced to trash pop, and the dancers didn’t, either. The music stayed the same, but the mood didn’t. Before, it had been a party. Now, they were given a show.

And what a show.

At some point, the guy at his side disappeared, but the alcohol in Kent’s veins squashed down any disappointment before it had a chance of surfacing. The appearance of another man helped, too. Kent’s height, hair so light it looked bleached, a smirk rivalling Kent’s own. Nice legs. Not to mention his ass.

In the centre of the crowd, the room, the entire fucking Olympic village, the two Swiss guys did a last twirl and ended with a passionate kiss, but from the outskirts of the crowd with a tongue down his throat and a hand on his ass, Kent saw none of it. By the time the crowd had reformed, the performance all but forgotten, Kent was grabbing his phone as a second thought and left the room with a hand brushing against his own and a promise blooming on his neck.

It wasn’t even a question which room they’d go to, not with soft Slavic words in his ear and what felt like the beginning of a snowstorm kicking up. The door barely shut before Kent’s shirt was pulled off by cold, impatient hands, and he grinned into the kiss that followed, briefly, until insistent lips against his forced it down. Cold, too, but Kent would soon warm them up. The kiss was dirty right off the bat, one in a long, long line that Kent would have no problem continuing.

Another shirt hit the floor, and soft skin pressed against Kent. Found its way under his hands. Someone moaned. Kent couldn’t tell who.

There was a bed somewhere, he remembered. Perhaps he could lift the guy there. Probably not, though. With the tongue in his mouth and the skin underneath his hands, it was difficult to pull a thought together. Didn’t matter. It was a nice tongue. The alcohol in his veins agreed, as did the hands on his ass. Strong hands. Nimble.

The mouth moved from his and settled on his neck before he had a chance to reconnect them. That would be a bruise, something in the back of his mind told him, swiftly squashed down by the hand moving from his ass to the front of his pants, cold even through the layers of fabric, and Kent shivered. Gasped. Tightened his hold in the guy’s hair as he moved again, to his chest, his mouth, his neck again. The bruises would be difficult to explain, but it didn’t matter as the guy began trailing kisses down his chest, teased at the hair around his belly button.

His hands were nimble, Kent found, as they did quick work of his zip. Warm breath teased already painfully sensitive skin, and it was all he could do not to let his head fall back and give the guy free reign of the situation. But this was Sochi. They didn’t know each other.

A frown and an unhappy set to a swollen red mouth met him as he gently pushed the man’s head away. “Condom.”

English, but it was either a universally translated word, or the fucker spoke more than he let on. Not that they’d spoken much. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. The packet was even uglier in the lack of lighting, but it’d do the work. Hopefully.

A soft kiss to his palm took Kent by surprise, swiftly forgotten as a warm pair of lips settled around him. And, _Jesus_ , the guy knew what he was doing. Biting back a moan, Kent pressed against the wall behind him, grappled for something to hold on to that wasn’t the guy’s hair, but there was little else, and he didn’t seem to mind. The knee almost hitting him in the side, neither, as a swirl of his tongue nearly sent Kent toppling down.

Like gag reflex was a town in fucking Russia, and Kent’s mind went blank. He came to on the floor, limp and limbless against the wall growing colder by the second, breathing hard enough for Tanaka in the room over to laugh. Unless she was laughing at something else.

”Thin-ass fucking walls,” Kent muttered, and the guy looked up, but there was no time for questions as Kent flipped him over, mouth already moving against his. A surprised sound met him, became a moan as Kent sucked in a bruise to his neck, revenge, retaliation, a word Kent vaguely recognised from the Aces’ dressing room as he began moving down. Slavic, for sure. Russian, most likely, and Kent grinned into the guy’s abs.

When in Russia.

There was no hair below his belly button, not until he managed to get the guy out of his trousers – and who wore pants that tight if they wanted to get laid? Couldn’t be comfortable, but it was none of his business.

His hair colour was natural. Heavily trimmed and meticulously planned, but natural.

It had been a while since Kent had last given a blowjob, but that was riding a bike, too, it turned out, and if they lost early on, Kent wouldn’t mind riding something else. Not that they would.

Fingers tightened in his hair, strong and nimble, and he moaned around him, allowed his head to be moved to a new rhythm. Tightened his own fingers on the guy’s thighs in warning, elicited another round of breathless swears, clear and cold as everything in Russia seemed to be, and it was definitely Russian. Hips buckled under Kent’s touch, almost sudden enough to make him choke, and he pushed the guy down as gently as possible without disturbing the rhythm too much. Took back control he clearly wasn’t supposed to have. A tightrope, as fingers tightened in his hair again, fought back, another round of swears that went straight to Kent’s gut.

And, at last, a cry and the buckle of hips. Even with the arm thrown across his face, it was too loud, enough for another bout of laughter in the next room. Perhaps the television was on.

Didn’t matter. Kent pulled off, was pulled in for another kiss, closed-mouthed, still hot and searing. The strong thighs around his waist stayed put, pressing hard enough into his sides to make him light-headed. Coital-like. Or some caricature of it that belonged nowhere but in shadows and whispers and hidden places.

He fell onto his back, repressed the urge to push off his trousers, sticky with pre-come and drying sweat. Cleared his throat. ”I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m fucking freezing. Wanna move to the bed, or do ya wanna to leave?”

Next to him, the man pulled his lower lip into his mouth, sucked on it just long enough for Kent to know he was doing it on purpose. And for him to know Kent knew. ”Bed is more comfortable.”

English, accented by easily understandable, and Kent grinned. ”I like the way y’think.”

Some time later, Kent didn’t count, neither of them counted, they once more fell apart, each on their own side of the bed. Still touching. The guy’s eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it was. At least his hair was finally as much of a mess as Kent’s. Somewhat, at least.

”I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

A grin met him, wide and practised, revealing all perfect teeth save for one slightly crooked in the lower right of his mouth. One imperfection. ”Aleksandr Yosefovich Novikov.”

He was met by a similar grin, slightly more crooked, slightly squarer jaw, slightly less symmetric. ”Kent Vincent Parson. Nice to meetcha.”

The grin was wiped off by a pair of lips, second round turned to a third, eventually a fourth in the smaller hours of the night. Not much sleeping, but they really did have six days. He did, at least. Plenty of time to fuck around.

Which was how the morning found them sitting on wrecked sheets with bite marks and bruises in places Kent didn’t even know could bruise, stark naked save for a pillow in each their lap and a plate of stew on top of it that Aleksandr had chosen haphazardly from the room service menu. It burned both of their throats, but neither cared.

“Were you not with friend last night?” Aleksandr asked suddenly through a mouthful of stew. It should look disgusting, but he somehow pulled it off. Probably his face, Kent decided. With a face like that he could pull off anything.

Aware of his own shortcomings, Kent swallowed before answering. “Nah, just an acquaintance. You’re not complicit in any cheating if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Good. You, neither.”

“Awesome.”

A fifth round in the shower, and Aleksandr pressed a kiss to the corner of Kent’s mouth before skipping down the flight of stairs just off his room. Not the only non-American, and Kent nodded to a Cuban lady and an Australian man before leaving the building entirely.

Five days. They had a name to uphold. And the boys knew it, judging by the sudden seriousness in the dressing room as he walked in. Seriousness or hangovers. Eyes on him as soon as he pulled off his shirt.

“What, never seen a hickey before?”

Malcolm whistled. “Never seen that many from one night. Jesus, how many ladies didja have?”

Kent grinned. “You must be around some boring people. I thought you knew how to party in, where are you from again, Tampa Bay? Oh, wait, maybe not, then.”

”Hey, fuck you, man!” Malcolm threw a shirt, narrowly missing Kent’s head. ”Just ‘cause you live in Las fucking Vegas … ” He shook his head, bent down to tie his skates.

“Bruiser’s got a point, y’look like the inner side of a fucking aquarium,” Clover said.

”Aquarium? The fuck, man?”

”Catfish, y’know. Fuckers always sucking. None of you guys ever had fish?”

Catfish. A new nickname if he wasn’t careful, the laughter foreboded, and Kent hid his own in his gear. If he was lucky, it’d only be February. Judging by the look of the other Shark in the room, it wouldn’t.

Not for the first time, far from the last, Kent was grateful he was the lone Ace in the dressing room.

-/ \\-

He returned to the bar Bjørnholt had shown him twice more, once on his own, both times leaving with Aleksandr after moments of deliberation that turned shorter each time. Compatibility, perhaps, mind-blowing sex, or simple convenience. A fetish for stability and domesticity neither could have. Company.

“You play on thirteenth, yes?”

Kent glanced up from his stew – or borscht, or whatever. “Yeah. You?”

“I have competition on thirteenth, too,” Aleksandr said, wiping a hint of red off his upper lip with his tongue. Twenty minutes ago, it had been on Kent. Would be again afterwards, if what little tradition they’d built didn’t change. “But until then, I am done.”

There was something he was supposed to get there. “Cool.”

Aleksandr nodded. ”I can show you Russia.”

The sound that left Kent wasn’t a huff. A weird blow to the too-hot soup perhaps. If anything. ”I don’t think I want to see any more than this.”

The sound that left Aleksandr was definitely a huff. Or something too tired to be laughter. ”I don’t either.”

”Why don’t you train somewhere else?” Kent asked later that night, or maybe the night after, sated and exhausted, Aleksandr resting on his arm, one finger running down his chest. A million miles away. And right there, almost cold to the touch.

”I like my coach.”

”He yelled at you for fifteen minutes today.”

It had been weird, but if Kent had had any doubts about staying put with Aleksandr, they left. The words coming through the phone had been rough, fast and annoyed, a few he could recognise. Swears. And through it all, Aleksandr had painted his toe nails, hummed and laughed when least appropriate.

One day, Kent might get to that point, too. Probably not.

”He does not judge people for being born wrong,” Aleksandr replied with a kiss to Kent’s sternum. Had their lives been different, he would’ve reached down to kiss him, long and sweet, without rolling him onto his back and going in for another round.

But they were who they were. And they were going to stay those people for a long, long time, far beyond the couple of weeks they had in Kent’s hotel room in a Village that would only hold ghosts once they were gone.

Might as well make the best of it. The time they’d remember for the rest of their lives, even if Aleksandr had done it twice before. And Kent would be there long after he was gone.

Might as well make the best of it.

*

Slovakia had been so close to a joke Kent had laughed all the way from the dressing room to the hotel, six goals in the second period that left them so high on the taste of victory that they underestimated the Russians.

Or perhaps it was the screaming, Kent thought as he waited out a penalty in the second period, throwing them off their game. Or the signs that no one but Kuznetsov could read. The people trying to pour beer on him as he waited for the final seconds on the clock to count down. The history.

They weren’t meant to win. They weren’t _wished_ to win, not by the team – bigger, stronger, faster, altogether meaner than the Slovaks – and not by the crowd behind them, hundreds and hundreds of men and woman screaming for a victory that wasn’t Kent’s. An entire country surrounding them, drawing in and suffocating.

Hatred, almost. Pure and distilled, and it was vodka in the cups, he realised, seconds before hitting the ice running, not beer like it was in the NHL.

”Taste good?” Malcolm asked on the way to the next face-off, and Kent smirked, stiffly, licked off some of the drops.

“You know it.”

A Russian skating past sent them a dirty look. Kent gave him a wink.

Probably enough to get him killed were they on the streets, he realised, before bending down.

Not the hatred currently thrown at him.

They won the face-off, but it was a near fucking thing. Kent set off as soon as the puck touched his stick, lasted only a handful of feet before a Russian the size of a fucking bison was at his side – too fucking close – and Kent found himself nearer and nearer the boards and a check he wouldn’t be able to walk off easily. Not even with the Olympic rules. There were Americans close, but always Russians near them, and it didn’t matter how much he ground his teeth, how much he pushed himself, the guy stayed.

And so the puck couldn’t.

With swears audible even through the glass, Kent let it go, let himself fall back for a fraction of a second before pushing back off, towards the game, towards the puck, towards the carnage, cold and merciless.

The goal was swift, no doubt dirty, too fast for the refs to catch. Even Kent was almost too far away to see. Still, with guys yelling around him, he stayed silent. Hypocrisy wasn’t his thing.

The feeling of something being not right, however, stayed. Unspoken and difficult to put a finger one, but searing through the games more than the adrenaline and building exhaustion.

When the puck fell again, it was caught by an American stick, sent to another almost soon as it hit. If they wanted any sort of chance, they’d have to be fast. Kent felt the eyes on his back heating up with every second going by, almost burning by the time the puck hit his stick. There was no focusing exclusively on the goal in a game like this, not with new teammates, not against guys bigger but still somehow of equal speed as him. Only way to get anything done was to move fast, think faster. Hope for the best.

In the corner of his eye, red skated past, followed by blue, more red, more blue. Kent waved through them all, passed the puck at every opportunity, caught it even more. The goal was coming up, framed by red and white and ever closer.

The Russian’s eyes were large, impossibly wide and white, with the slightest ring of blue around impossibly deep blackness. Had the situation been any different, had they not been on the ice and on TV and at the fucking Olympics, he would’ve taken a step back, tried to find a way around. But this was no such time, there was no time, and he had to stand his ground.

A flick of the wrist, and he moved his stick to be in front of his chest, as if it could protect him.

The horn blew.

The goalie looked as surprised as Kent felt, the American shooter, too, the Russians. The crowd. But still, the horn blew and Kent skated off, black pupils seared into his and a shiver running down his spine.

1-1.

There was no celly, no energy and no need. Barely any Americans to celebrate with, too many Russians to dare. Too much wrath. They weren’t in Lake Placid.

Seconds before reaching the face-off circle, Kent caught a pair of ocean-blue irises in the crowd, a team Russia jacket with a gold medal just barely peeking through. Eight good days, good fucks, more stews than he could remember eating in his life.

Raising his cup – definitely vodka – in greeting, Aleksandr Novikov mouthed something that made the man next to him snort and bumped their shoulders together. Team Switzerland. Shoulders not quite touching the other Swiss man next to him. Nothing of note, if you didn’t know what to look for. The reality of what he and Aleksandr were faking.

Good for them.

”You gonna ogle Russian puck bunnies all night, or what?”

”Thought I’d get a view of the real thing in her element,” Kent replied, attention back on the ice where it would stay for the rest of the game. ”’Meet hot, Russian women today’ and all that shit.”

Malcolm frowned.

”You never get those ads?”

”What kinda websites do you visit?”

Kent shrugged, tried not to think about how an animated series from his childhood in its original language had become robots with Christian imagery and high school swim clubs. ”Porn, obviously.”

There were no follow-up questions, no laughter, just a ref skating past and another dropped puck. A clock running out of time. A break. The ice under their skates again, two goals, back-to-back, one for the Russians that left Sorensen lying down in the net with it, another for team USA. Pair work.

Teammates, Kent recalled, for quite a few years. Robinson and … Guy something. Both drafted onto a relatively new team a couple years back. Providence. First female assistant GM. Yet to make playoffs, and probably wouldn’t for a while still.

And not relevant for another week.

How they made it through the last ten minutes of the game, Kent had no idea. They were getting desperate, he felt, in his own bones, in his teammates’ faces. But not in the Russians’. Not even the slightest hints of exhaustion, and so they ground their teeth and kept skating, from penalty to offence to power play, over and over and over until it was all he could do not to let the tears punching behind his eyes fall.

His lungs hurt. For once, in all the years he’d played, hockey was taking away his breath, and he wanted it to end.

2-2. Two more periods, and if a tear or three were wiped on the back of his jersey sleeve during the break, no one looked. No one asked. And he didn’t, either. Around them, the coaches were talking – stamina, precision, the Soviet fucking machine – but there were few who listened. They all knew, and Kent wanted to break his stick. Scream. Retire, if he ever had to play against people who were barely human anymore again. 

In a corner, Robinson was fiddling with his stick, his bearded friend bumping their shoulders together and saying something with his eyes Kent hadn’t the slightest chance to decipher but still hit like a punch to his stomach.

It had been a while since he hadn’t had to use words to be understood, and in that moment, so near defeat it almost felt like a blessing and with frustration burning beneath his skin that wouldn’t leave no matter how hard he scratched at it, he wished himself back.

”Let some of the younger guys in,” bearded guy grumbled the next beat of silence, and Kent listened with relief. ”The Russians have more energy than we do, better use what we have.”

The coach’s lips thinned. Robinson looked thankful. Or enraged. Or just fucking exhausted.

And after two more fruitless, _meaningless_ periods, they all did, after a confusing back and forth, to one end and the other chasing after a puck that could never stay with one team for more than a couple seconds at the time. Kent’s legs burned under the weight of him, his throat felt too much like one night five years prior he didn’t fucking think about, and there was no time to stop. Stopping led to goals, and not the goals they needed.

The Russians didn’t stop. Not until the horn blew, and not even after that. There was a shootout to win, and victory would be theirs. Kent didn’t need a mutual language to understand that.

Sorensen left the ice just before him with a clap on the shoulder from Malcolm. A nod. Had Kent been the captain, he would’ve said something, joked, pulled out a laugh that might last until the end. It would’ve backfired, probably, but sometimes trying was enough. Not in a play, never in a play, but people weren’t plays.

Too bad he wasn’t captain.

And that was a thought for another time.

A groan went through the crowd as the first Russian missed. Threw his stick against the glass. There was a kid behind it. Kent couldn’t see his face.

The second miss was a wave of relief through the American bench, a single exhale in the wrath of the crowd, the entire fucking country.

The third Russian … big guy, much too big, much too fucking big for his speed, and Sorensen’s eyes followed him between the pipes, tried, _failed_. Constantly moving, a blur of black as he shot, sooner than Kent thought he would, and much sooner than Sorensen thought.

There was silence as the puck hit the back of the net, for a heartbeat that lasted centuries.

All air left Kent’s lungs, a heavy feeling settling in its stead as a roar tore through the crowd. They still had qualifications playoffs. It had been an unlucky draw, meeting the Russians so early. Other teams would be easier. Switzerland and the Czech Republic would be playing later, at least one would be in the bracket, too. Along with - 

”It’s not in!” someone yelled from his right. He was shushed, but the words didn’t stop.

Kent opened his mouth, something much sharper than necessary ready on his tongue, something to shut him up, but the words died before they could be fully formed as he noticed a ref skating up to the goal. Speaking with Sorensen who gestured towards the colour on the ice.

”It was on the line,” the guy on Kent’s right continued. Kruznetsov.

On centre ice, a ref lifted his arms.

No goal.

”Huh,” Kent breathed as a roar of disappointment tore through the crowd. From where he stood, Aleksandr was a small but visible spot of blond, red and white, face impossible to make out. Probably for the best.

”Snap out of it, Parson,” followed a hard hand on his back. ”You’re up.” The voice quieted down as it neared his ear, close enough for warm breath to tingle over the shell of his ear. ”Don’t fucking disappoint us out there. Prove that first pick wasn’t just ‘cause Zimmermann was a fucking junkie.”

An encouragement, a threat, the last bit of hope in a man as desperate as they all were, and Kent wanted to cut this throat with his skate. Four fucking years. Almost five.

Almost five.

The ice was hard under his skates, calming in a way nothing else had ever been. Before the thousands of eyes on him could settle and weigh, he pushed off, gained speed, exhaled. The puck was by his stick, his stick in his hands, his eyes on the goal. There was nothing else, no crowd, no cameras, no teammates, no Russians. No one but himself and the puck and the goalie that grew in front of him, grew to fill the entire goal and the entirety of his vision. He was frowning, dark brows scrunched together, eyes settled on Kent’s in a way that made him want to run, turn tails and get the fuck out of there, but running wasn’t an option. Even if the fucker could – and _would_ \- break him in two.

There was a small spot by his right shoulder, one small piece of air that he didn’t fill out. Even without closing his eyes, Kent could see Jack’s stick swing. His eyes would be on the goal, but the stick would still hit a puck, no matter where it had been moments before, because Kent made sure it went where it needed to. Jack aimed and shot, Kent supplied the puck. Right time, right place. Like they’d done a thousand times.

Why that memory popped up, Kent didn’t know, and there was no time to dwell as a roar tore through the crowd once again, of indignation or relief or wrath or something else entirely that didn’t fucking matter in the slightest fucking way.

Good goal.

No qualifications playoffs.

Somehow, his legs didn’t give in. They weren’t in Lake Placid, hadn’t been in thirty-four years, but that was a true fucking miracle.

Aleksandr found him after the game, waited just off the entrance of the building, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and a Team Russia toque pushed almost down to his eyes. A day or two earlier, the sight would’ve made something buzz in Kent’s stomach that he’d decided to call desire. Now, he grabbed his arm, just on the wrong side of too rough, but it didn’t matter, nothing fucking did, and dragged him even further away.

”The fuck’re y’doing here?”

Aleksandr shrugged himself loose. “I thought you might want company.”

“Like this – the fuck’re ya thinking, this is too fucking risky!”

A dirty hit, and the lazy smile from earlier disappeared as had it never been there in the first place, replaced by something Kent refused to acknowledge and made something dark and sweet burn in the pit of his stomach.

_Finally_.

”Don’t talk to me about risky, I know my own country!”

”Then why the fuck’re ya here?”

Another attack, and Aleksandr grimaced. Closed his eyes. ”I am here because I want to. And you look like you need company.”

“Company? I fucking - I don’t need anything. We won, in case y’didn’t notice. Pretty difficult to see in the middle of all that doping, I bet.”

Not a slap, not as hard as what he’d said before. The truth, and Aleksandr knew it the mother _fucker_ \- 

“What, are you doping, too?”

“Of course not!”

And there it was, the anger from before, and Kent would’ve laughed had it not been for the wrath burning beneath his own skin and the cold seeping in deeper with every second going by. As he’d found it did every time he stood still for more than half a minute in the deep of Russian winter.“We can’t talk here. I don’t wanna be fucking outed.”

”Neither do I!” Aleksandr opened his mouth, ready for something that would pierce and burn and flare, and Kent was ready for it, but nothing came. Instead, he took a deep breath, a second, spoke again in a voice as cold as the country around them and the ice in his eyes. “I will go with Hans tonight. If you want me tomorrow, we will see. Congratulations on win.”

With that, he walked away, and Kent did, too, half a minute later, just in case, but there was no need. They were alone. And he kept walking, gloved hands in pockets and a fire slowly burning out beneath his skin as the cold seeped into his bones. By the time he entered the American house, it was all gone, and the cold won out. There was a lift, but he didn’t use it. Never had. Didn’t fucking trust anything in that fucking Village, didn’t trust the _fucking_ Russians, barely even trusted the stairs, but they’d held Aleksandr every time he’d come by, and every time he’d sneaked back out. They could hold him, too. Fifth floor, first door from the back stairs.

As he fished out his keys, nearly dropped them in fingers he couldn’t feel, the second opened.

”Rough game.”

Elise Tanaka. Makeup-less, loose hair, black tank top, sweatpants. No bra. Five foot a prayer, and Kent could beat the shit out of her if he wanted. For a long second, he did. ”No fucking shit.”

”You did your best.”

Kent bit down a rebuttal, stuck the key in his door, tried to remember if there was still alcohol left from the night before. Or if Aleksandr had drunk it all.

”Fucking hate it when people say that, don’t you?” Tanaka continued. ”Like, you weren’t in my skates, how dare you try and fucking tell me how I did.”

The door cracked open. ”So why do ya?”

”I’m not trynna tell you shit,” Tanaka replied, shoulder leaning against the wall, arms crossed just beneath her breasts. ”I’m just empathising. Look, I know what skating against Russians are like. I’m used to it. Doesn’t seem like you are.”

Kent’s grip on the door handle tightened. ”There’re Russians in the NHL.”

”Not like in the KHL, I bet.”

”Whaddaya know about the KHL?”

She grinned. ”A lot. Including how I wouldn’t fuck a single one of the fuckers playing in it.”

He should just leave. Go to sleep. Forget the game for as long as he lived. ”Why not?”

”You ever seen one of those oxen, all pumped full of dope and testosterone and shit? Look like their muscles are about to rip their skin, balls like raisins? All aggressive.”

On the ice, barely an hour past. A memory he wanted to throw up and cut out.

“I tried one once. No, two. Can’t recommend it.”

”I’ll keep that in mind.” With a tight smile, he stepped into his room.

”Can I come in? I’ve got whiskey. And condoms.”

The last part was added, inconspicuously, no big deal. Kent wasn’t a fucking idiot. ”I thought I was too short for ya.”

“I can change my mind.”

He didn’t snort, because exhaustion had taken his breath and had yet to give it back. ”There’re thin walls here.”

She snorted, because she hadn’t skated that day. ”Fuck, if you knew how many threesomes the guy in the room next to mine’s had … ”

”You know what I’ve been doing.”

She shrugged. ”How am I to know you’re not bi? Or experimenting? Or willing to experiment?”

Something must have shown on his face. Or stayed hidden.

Tanaka’s smile grew. ”Let me come in for some whiskey, at least. Tell me ’bout how good a lay Aleksandr is, I’ll tell you what trynna suck a doped-up dick’s like.”

”You know him.”

”Do I, an internationally ranked figure skater, know who Aleksandr Yosefovich Novikov is?”

Arms crossed, a crooked smile that looked so natural Kent was almost jealous, and she really was beautiful. All coke-bottle body and boundless confidence. A promise and a tease. Everything he’d heard about in dressing rooms for years after years after years. ”Expensive or cheap?”

”The whiskey?” At his nod, she shrugged. ”Nicked it off some guy I fucked a couple nights ago. Wanna be the judge?”

It was stupid. Lots of things were. And he did want company, he realised.

He didn’t want to be alone.

The hotel room was quiet, blessedly so. Somewhat neat, too, even. Not that Elise Tanaka seemed to care about either. Without sparing as much as a glance around, she sat herself down cross-legged on the edge of the bed and opened the bottle. After a swig and a grimace, she handed it off to Kent who grimaced as well.

”Oh, fuck, definitely cheap.”

She snorted. It sounded painful. ”Should’ve known. Fucker wasn’t exactly generous.”

Kent raised an eyebrow. She raised one back.

”Fuck him, then.”

She shrugged. ”I did, didn’t I?”

“’pparently. Beats me why, though.”

“You gotta try sometimes. Give people the benefit of the doubt.”

“But no more KHL-players.”

She snorted. “Fuck no. Jesus. Two doped up dicks were more than enough for me.”

Kent nodded, grimaced at the whiskey. It truly was bad, bitter and burning far more than it had to. He took another swig, one more to burn away the frustration seeping from his skin and through his muscles, lodging in the marrow of his bones where it threatened to burst them from within.

Fucking _machines_ , and Tanaka nodded, fifty or more pounds on him and still his speed, keeping it up throughout the games, and Tanaka rubbed his shoulder, not _fucking_ fair, how were they supposed to compete against that, how was it still allowed, why were they even fucking bothering, and Elise kissed him. Or he kissed her. Looking back, he wasn’t actually sure who had kissed whom. But they did kiss, that he knew. One moment they weren’t, the next they were, simple as that.

Why he didn’t stop was another question, for another time. But the bottle of the whiskey ended up forgotten on the floor, his hands on her hips, hers in his hair. The taste of whiskey was almost too bitter to continue, her tongue burning against his, and perhaps that was why. Burning away the frustration. That, and the muscles beneath his hands, taut and strong, yet soft. Nice to touch, and Chiyo had been the same, the times they’d hugged. A softness he didn’t feel when touching Aleksandr. Or Jack. Or Navid. Or any of the nameless other men. It was nice. Different.

Fun.

Which had to be why, when she climbed onto his lap, shirt on the floor, his, too, he didn’t resist, just settled his hands on the indent of her waist and kissed her back. Let her do what she wanted. Wondered just how much he could let her do.

”Close your eyes,” she whispered, breath warm at his ear. ”Pretend I’m Aleksandr.”

And he did. For some reason that might have been the whiskey and might have been the Russians and might have been something else entirely, he did. Closed his eyes, thought of blonde hair and ocean-blue eyes and a wicked smile that all kept turning dark brown, sky-blue, unsure. No matter how much he tried to focus on nimble fingers instead. Strong thighs. A soft mouth that knew exactly what it was doing. Soft hair against his neck. Soft breasts.

”You’re not into this at all, are you?”

There was no judgement in her eyes, none in the set of her swollen lips. Maybe boredom. Maybe not.

”Sorry.”

She shook her head. ”’s fine. Wanna have some more whiskey instead? Take a couplea selfies?”

The exhaustion was creeping back up, helped by the whiskey in his veins and a buzz behind his eyes that weren’t tears. He wouldn’t let them. ”Sure.”

With a nod, she was off his lap, cross-legged on the bed, whiskey in hand. After taking a long drag, she handed it back to Kent, as if nothing had happened. She made no comment when he drank, kept drinking, barely gave the bottle back to her. Just kept talking about shit he didn’t need to listen to.

When they woke up the next morning, her head was on his stomach, his hand on hers just below her breasts. Neither had bothered putting their shirts back on.

It was cold.

His entire body hurt.

They had another game.

*

Twenty-four hours after Russia and the exhaustion was still there. The anger, too, though, if anything, that was what ended up obliterating Slovenia. Five goals, two of them Kent’s, one Slovene with luck on his side in the third period.

It almost felt like revenge, in some fucked up way.

If he fucked Aleksandr a little harder that night than necessary, maybe that was revenge, too. He didn’t ask, didn’t comment, just rolled onto his back with a grimace afterwards and stretched out his legs. Rested his head on an arm, his hairless armpit no longer as alien as it had been the first week together. No longer scaring the shit out of Kent along with his painted toe nails, the too-nice hair, the cologne. The high-pitched laugh and bent wrists.

”What are you going to do when you retire?”

His hair was soft between Kent’s fingers, easy to weave through, not the slightest curl in sight. As much as he tried, he’d probably be bald by forty. ”I don’t know.”

”No idea?”

Kent shook his head. ”You?”

There was quiet. Had it not been for ocean-blue eyes staring at the ceiling, Kent would’ve thought him asleep. Wouldn’t be the first time he fell asleep in the middle of a conversation. Usually after a bit more alcohol than they’d had that night, though. How much, he couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter.

”I don’t think I will retire,” Aleksandr finally said, then sat up to kiss Kent in a way that left little room for follow-up questions.

Fifteen minutes later, another opened bottle of scotch, and the conversation was all but forgotten.

-/ \\-

”It’s probably the same team,” Antagnozza confided in the dressing room in the loudest stage-whisper Kent had ever heard. ”I’m serious! Just the Russians trynna get more medals.”

“Might as well be!” Isaac shouted from across the room. ”Same league!”

”Same drugs!” Henderson added, and there were flinches around the room, hands tightening in jerseys, a wound still raw and bleeding.

”What about the opening ceremony?” Robinson asked.

”Easy. They didn’t go at the same time, so they just changed their clothes before heading back out!”

”So they all just stood in some bathroom somewhere putting on new shit?”

”Look me in the eye and tell me it’s impossible.”

”It’s not like anyone would’ve noticed if they forgot to switch out the flag,” Sorensen added. ”They’re all blue, red and white. Look completely the same.”

“Bro, we’re blue, red and white.”

Sorensen’s smile faded, switched out for something so utterly confused Kent had to hide his grin in his jersey before lacing up his skates. Grinned freely three hours later as Aleksandr showed up at his door with something bright and alcoholic. He took the first sip before the door even closed.

”Someone had hard night.”

”It was the Czech Republic. We won 5-2. I scored twice.”

”I know,” Aleksandr said, leading them both to the bed. ”I saw.”

Kent kissed him. ”Y’don’t have anything better to do?”

Another high-pitched laugh, clear and with alcohol lacing every tone, and Kent would be lying if he didn’t have the tiniest of crushes. ”I like hockey. And you are good player.”

”I’m the fucking best. And so are you.”

Something changed in Aleksandr’s eyes, something dark, gone as swiftly as it had arrived, from Kent’s mind, too, as their lips met again, dry beneath a sticky layer of alcohol. Their glasses ended up on the bedside table, and a small pool of alcohol seeped into the carpet below. Neither noticed.

Canada followed two days later, two days before the closing ceremony. A Friday. The game was fucked from the get-go. Had to be, when everyone on the ice played in the same league at all other times. Too much history.

Five minutes into the game, Jensen was sent out with a busted knee and a Canadian grinning just a tad too wide. Shortly thereafter, Robinson’s bearded friend received a major from pushing another guy’s face into the glass, leaving a trail of blood behind. Probably not undeserved, given his daughter not in the stands, fathered by a man very clearly not the one on the ice. Genetics didn’t work like that, but there was no prouder father, and the NHL was still the NHL. No one cared about love on the ice unless the loving you were doing was wrong.

Kent had always liked that guy.

“Back off.”

The voice was accented and rough, like the goalie was just coming out from a cold. The look in his eyes said otherwise. One wrong move and Kent would have his face beaten in.

”Why? This is a pretty nice place you’ve got here. Not fair to keep it all to yourself.”

The next words were French, and it took Kent an embarrassing long time to understand, recognise them as some Jack had spoken in numerous games. Numerous fucks.

The goalie had blue eyes, too.

Not that he cared.

Against the boards, Robinson and a Canadian were fighting for the puck, much closer than they’d been a second before. Pushing himself away, Kent managed only a couple of steps forward before the puck was back onto the ice, Malcolm’s stick, a Canadian’s, Malcolm’s. Whoever hit it was impossible to say, but Kent needed only dart out a couple of feet to catch it, catch the goalie’s eyes, swing around a D-man with enough speed to last him against a regular player, but Kent was not that, and they both knew it. With a step to the side, a flick of the wrist, and a head fall into the goalie, the puck was in.

Time to get the fuck out, Kent thought, before a fist met his cheek. Something hard and metallic slit through his skin, a ring, some kind of lucky charm, pain that wouldn’t be felt until the blood in his veins once more outmatched the adrenaline. Not yet.

Not until they’d won.

”You okay?” Robinson asked, frowning, eyes on Kent’s cheek. The refs were on the side, looking at their screens. Robinson glanced over. ”Nothing more you can do. Seriously, go get checked out. You’re getting blood on your jersey.”

Kent opened his mouth.

”I have a five-year old at home, you’re not winning this.”

In any other situation, for anyone else, it would’ve been humiliating, but Kent knew when he was beat. And he was fucking exhausted. A glance to the refs revealed them still talking, and if he was fast - 

“You got lucky, kid,” the medic said, and Kent grunted, clenched his hands into fists in his gloves as the ref on centre ice raised his arms.

Annulled the goal.

”Get the next one,” the coach said. ”We’re gonna need it.”

They did.

But it wasn’t coming.

The loss was bitter, more so than the whiskey he drowned himself in that night, Aleksandr stroking his hair and sucking his dick, and Kent knew there was nothing he could’ve done. Not even Jack could’ve made a difference. Had he been there.

Except they wouldn’t have been on the same team, even if Jack had American citizenship, too, because he would always choose Canada. Never the USA.

The bottle hit the floor, and Aleksandr spread his legs without complaint, scratched a long, red line down Kent’s back and bit his collarbone until that drew blood, too. Tore him to pieces, and Kent was grateful.

Too much history indeed.

“There is still bronze,” Aleksandr whispered as the clock passed three and darkness hid them both from each other. His hands were in Kent’s hair, weaving through, undoing a knot with every stroke.

”You’ve never gotten bronze in your life.”

Aleksandr cracked a smile, blinding and impossible to make out in the dark, as fake as any Kent had gotten in the time they’d known each other. ”Do you ever miss it?”

”Miss what?”

”Not being on top.”

”I don’t bottom.”

“Was not what I meant.”

Kent kissed him. ”I know.”

Beneath them, a party had started up, open windows, euro pop. Someone was singing along without doing too good a job of it.

”Do you miss it?”

Another kiss was pressed to his lips, long and soft, too soft for everything they weren’t and would never be. ”I am the top.”

”Nah, man, you’re a fucking bottom.”

With a grin, Kent was pulled in for another round, sweat and pre-come and alcohol fumes, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms, untangled in the morning with quiet swears and bile rising in their throats. Humiliating, being hunched over a toilet bowl with another man, humiliating and strangely intimate, and at least Aleksandr wasn’t able to look like a model with puke in the corner of his mouth. Small joys.

He was lucky the hangover was over by the time the Finns stepped onto the ice. A lesson from playoffs the year before, but the Olympics weren’t playoffs.

Kent had no fucking idea what the fuck they were supposed to be.

There was still bronze, Aleksandr had said. As he stepped onto the ice, hit the first puck, watched the first Finn snatch the puck from right beneath his nose and pass it to a teammate who was in offence before anyone could blink, Kent wished he hadn’t.

No goals in the first period. Two in the second. Three in the third.

A fucking massacre.

When he entered the dressing room, soaked to the bone in sweat and with tears punching the back of his eyes, the showers were already going, gear lying on the floor. Close enough to the benches to look accidental, far enough away to know.

There was only four years to Pyoengchang, no one said.

We did our best, no one said.

Fucking Russians, someone said, and others nodded. Even if the Russians were already out.

Kent’s gear went into his bag, packed as neatly as possible, jersey on top. He’d have to move it to get his towel in after showering, but before that, he’d open his bag. See the flag. Feel something that might resemble pride, if he was lucky. Memories, otherwise. And that was nice, too. That was good.

The water was hot against his back, burned into the skin and slid it off, rushed it all down the drain, went for his muscles, arteries, bones, his very being. Still didn’t touch the loss.

Only when he could no longer feel his own body did Kent step back out of the showers, dry himself off, dress with his eyes on the bench. This time, though, all eyes were on the benches. For once, he wasn’t alone. For once, his reasons were the same as everyone else’s.

”We might as well surrender,” Jones said, nasal voice tearing through whatever cloud they were all stuck in. ”Burn the flag, eat the eagle. The US is a Finnish colony now.”

”We’re Finnished,” Sorensen muttered.

”Finnished,” Jones nodded.

There was no laughter.

At least Canada won, a well-deserved 3-0 against Sweden – impressive that they’d even made it that far, fun to play in four years, smirk and nod and haveagoodoneman – and Kent exhaled it against Aleksandr’s skin, kept the loss inside. It wasn’t his to share. It wasn’t Aleksandr’s to feel.

“Is best to lose to winning team.”

“We got silver, kinda. Theoretically.”

There was more whiskey that night, too much for walking the closing the ceremony the night after, but that was the future.

“Fuck the future,” Aleksandr said around the neck of a bottle, cheeks flushed and hair a mess, accent so much thicker than usual Kent could barely understand him. Or maybe he was the drunk one. “Give me alcohol coma over new season.”

“Then retire,” Kent replied, the same way some would say ‘perish’, giggled at his own joke and nearly fell off the fucking bed. A hand on his arm was less steadying and more pushing, more weight added into the mess of limbs and non-sexy sweat they became on the edge of the bed, an arm and a leg hanging off.

“I will rather have shot in head,” Aleksandr said, and Kent laughed, kept laughing until there was no more breath in his body and he really did die, ceased to exist for a blessed few hours. They both did. Underneath them, the sheets were sticky, disgustingly so, but the pillows were soft and the whiskey was hitting, and more than anything, Kent wanted to forget. Just forget.

It was good thing time didn’t exist in the witching hour with a bottle of whiskey in one’s system and a dying Village burning up outside. A thousand miles away.

“I date hockey player once. Put me off ever since.”

”I had someone once, too. In Juniors. Teammate.”

”He break three of my ribs. Had to.”

”He was my best friend.”

“We were at same rink. His team and then me, the _голубой_.”

”I loved him.”

“I loved him so much.”

”I’m not sure he loved me back, I think he did, but … I don’t know. Anymore.”

“I remember look on his face when he kick me. I close my eyes now, and is still there.”

”He OD’ed. I found him.”

“He visit me in hospital. Apologised, but … “

”I’m not sure it matters whether or not he loved me back. It’s all just so fucked up.”

“I hate him. I love him, but I hate him.”

“ … I hate him, too.”

The darkness was complete, a pillow over each their faces, the rope around their necks, the barrel of a gun. And they were both already dead. Dead and gone and timeless and drunk.

Aleksandr sighed, breathed out the last oxygen in the room and left them both suffocating. A second later, he pressed a kiss to the junction between Kent’s neck and shoulder, uncoordinated and wet. When he pulled back, the bright, unbothered smile he always wore was back in place, as if it had never faltered at all. ”Enough sadness for one night, I think. I feel like vodka, you?”

It was three in the morning. Kent’s jaw hurt. His eyes, too. And neither of them existed. ”Sure.”

Next thing he knew, Aleksandr was skipping across the room wearing not a single thread on his body to grab an abandoned bottle off a table. ”Why floors so cold, I do not understand,” he complained, slipped back into bed with an exaggerated shudder, and handed Kent a glass of clear liquid. ”На здоровье!”

Their glasses clanked together, loud in the painful quiet of the room, and they both drank. Outside, another round of partying had started, people jeering and music playing loud enough to wake up anyone boring enough to sleep. Anyone still alive.

And perhaps they really would be gone in the morning. Breathe out in their sleep, hearts stopping in sync, growing cold together – colder, in Aleksandr’s case – until someone stumbled upon them, a cleaning lady, a teammate, an official. A fucking scandal, the two best in their respective sports, lovers and secrets and _faggots_. Alcohol poisoning. A murder. A suicide pact, because that was what freaks of nature like them did. The secret finally out, and perhaps Jack would cry. Perhaps he wouldn’t.

Or whoever would find them would burn their bodies. Throw them in the river. Bury them somewhere the secret would never be revealed, and their deaths would be the topic of numerous discussion, podcasts, books. The inspiration of stories for years to come. Questions that would never have answers, or someone breaching decade-long silence on their death bed. Alcohol poisoning, a murder, a suicide pact.

Freaks.

When Kent blinked his eyes open in the morning, feeling lost in the arm Aleksandr was sleeping on and the leg he was somehow sleeping on himself, it was almost a disappointment. The look on Aleksandr’s face said the same thing. Bright and cheery, hungover and beautiful. Too beautiful.

They parted with one last kiss, soft and lingering, closed-mouthed and far too intimate, but an ending nonetheless. A goodbye native to them both.

“Спасибо,” Aleksandr may have whispered, and Kent may have answered. That, or the last hints of alcohol. The hangovers. The lights of the closing ceremony where they didn’t see each other, exhaustion having taken the spot of anticipation. Sixteen days, it had been. Felt like sixteen years.

Halfway through the walk, maybe earlier, a hand slid into his, glove-less, slightly clammy. Elise gave him something that wasn’t a smile, squeezed his hand, glanced at one of the cameras.

“Gimme Jeffrey Troy’s phone number, and we’re even,” she whispered with a kiss to his lips as the lights faded and the audience applauded.

And he did. Turned off his phone. Looked out of the tiny window in the plane heading east and watched Russia disappear in a whirl of snow and clouds and eternal sunshine.

Never again.

Not until Korea.

Four years was a long fucking time.

-/ \\-

Marina Teterya pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Here I thought you’d be happy.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then why the fuck do ya look it?”

A pair of deep brown eyes met his, annoyance or sleeplessness or boredom just behind them. Who fucking knew with that bitch. “You know you’re only getting away with this ‘cause the alternative’s worse, right?”

The screen of Kent’s phone on the table between them went black. Hid the picture. Pretty good, if he had anything to say, but Marina wouldn’t ask about that. All she needed to know was if the hand covering half of Elise Tanaka’s otherwise naked right breast on the picture she’d posted a couple of days after the Russia game was Kent’s. If he knew anything about the dark spot on her collarbone that might be a hickey and might be the light, or the expensive-looking watch on the hand, the only visible part of the man on the picture save for a slight strip of skin, an ab, something that was a nipple the same way her hickey was a hickey.

“I know.”

Swoops’ dick better be worth it, he’d thought about DM’ing her.

Thank you, he’d typed out. Possibly sent, too, but a bottle of whiskey had left the memory fuzzy, and she hadn’t written back. So maybe not.

“Shit, I don’t blame you,” Greenberg said over a drink in the bar that wasn’t their main on, ‘cause they were in Las fucking Vegas, and there were too many to choose from. “Fuck, I don’t even care how much Teterya’d chew me up, pussy like that’s worth it.”

“Sure is,” Kent agreed, one eye on Swoops texting in a corner, the other on Pops laughing with Lutz in another.

“Fuck, was she good?”

Yes, she was. Yes, she was flexible. Yes, her body actually looked like that. No, I don’t have a fucking Asian fetish, Burlap. And she’s mixed. Who cares, I fucked her. Yes, she was good.

In the corner, Pops laughed again, and Kent considered abandoning the conversation, putting down his Sunset Malibu, walking over and telling him he’d met Aleksandr Novikov. Gone on his knees for him. Fucked him until his back arched and he left scratches down Kent’s back that still weren’t entirely gone and didn’t match Elise’s bitten-down nails. Greenberg asked something new, and Kent answered. Imagined the colour Pops’ face would turn, how it would twist. How devastating the injuries he’d accidentally acquire after a wild night out that no one on the team would be able to tell the exact details from would be.

Drowning the last of his Sunset Malibu, Kent asked the bartender for one more. Earned himself a laugh and a slap on the back. Another question, another smirk.

Another game, because those never stopped. Even if time did.

Swirling on one skate, Kent pushed the puck forward, joined it a second later once the Falconer was safely behind him. Another was following at his left, two, Carly, too. A little closer to the goal, Scrappy checked a Falconer into the glass, legal, no trouble, before speeding towards whatever was happening behind Kent. A step sequence, and Kent caught a glimpse of the hit – again, not dirty, merely retaliation, but the game had gone on too long. There was wrath in Scrappy’s eyes, so misplaced it nearly sent Kent stumbling, but they were both professionals, and they’d known each other long enough for Kent to look away and still know what was happening. And so, when the first hit fell, or check, whatever it was, Kent kept his eyes on the goal. The refs were far behind, had been last time he looked, the goal was coming up, and he could make it. Probably.

Not.

The Falconer was large, dark eyes flaring, in Kent’s way between one blink and the next. With a soft swear, Kent pushed the puck closer to his skates and went to the side in one swift motion. Looking back later, it was clear when his stick hit the other guy’s chin, but in the moment, he didn’t notice. Not until something hit him back and knocked his helmet clean up. Hit his eyebrow. The pain was immediate, sharp enough for Kent to bite down on his mouth guard but not enough to make him stop.

He managed one step before a gloved hand came around his arm. The swear wasn’t soft this time, could probably be heard by the spectators only a few feet away, but Kent didn’t fall, and the puck was still by his stick. Everything else could come later.

It didn’t take him long to shake the Falconer off, not once Carly caught up. The brawl had grown, three Falconers now, about as many Aces, Kent right in the fucking middle of it all. Between the pipes, the goalie was looking confused, painted eyes darting between him and the fight, the refs making their way up.

Perfect.

Something warm was making its way down Kent’s face, only narrowly missing his right eye, but he kept it open, bit down on his mouth guard, kept skating.

Kent, brawl, refs. Kent, brawl, refs. Kent, brawl -

The puck slipped in, just between the goalie’s stick and the side of the goal. Nothing flashy, not this time. The sound of the horn barely ended before a whistle blew.

A fucking disaster, a vulture would call it later, in other words, a disgrace, too much fighting and a ref who may need to look for jobs other places. Kent didn’t follow up.

It took all four striped men to pry the players from each other and hold them apart until all blood had cooled down, enough for penalties to be given.

Two majors, two minors. One good goal.

The Falconer from before, angrier now, a couple of bruises already blooming on his lower face, skated past and knocked their shoulders together. Not hard enough for another penalty, but hard enough for Kent to almost stumble. ”Крыса.”

With that, he was gone, glaring at Kent all five minutes if his penalty.

A drop of blood let go of its hold on Kent’s jaw and landed on the ice.

At least it wasn’t голубой.

-/ \\-

Ten days before playoffs, nine games into Kent’s new point streak, Swoops sneaked out of their hotel room. Unusual, but Kent had gone to bed, and they’d just won a game, and it wasn’t any of his business. Would’ve been if Swoops hadn’t returned in time for no one else to notice, but he did. Smiling and with a spring in his step and a hickey on his neck.

“Bro.”

Swoops shrugged.

“Bro, are you serious?”

Another shrug. “When a lady calls, a gentleman answers.”

“A lady in Boston?”

Meeting his eyes, Swoops grinned. “She’s from Virginia. But she trains in Boston.”

“What, found yourself another ballerina?”

“Nah, figure skater. And I didn’t find her, you did. Thanks for that, by the way. She’s amazing.”

Almost a sigh, and Kent should chirp him. “What, Elise? Fuck, she actually called ya?”

“Yup.” Popped p, and she must’ve been mind-blowing. Or just blowing.

“And y’didn’t ask me first? Haven’t ya ever heard of the fucking bro code?”

Swoops frowned. “Are you serious?”

He should be. If the world had been a fair place, he would be, but it wasn’t. And Kent was a good bro. “Nah, just messin’ withya. Her pussy’s worth Marina’s wrath, I’m not keeping that to myself.”

Another frown, swiftly replaced by a laugh, and Kent grinned, too. “Shit, Parse, you know how to crack a guy up. I owe you a Golden Knights’ game, remind me of that.”

“After playoffs.”

Swoops shook his head. “How people think you’re a rebel’s beyond me.”

“Get dressed.”

“Fuck you, cap.”

“I’m serious, you _reek_ of sex, if y’don’t want Burke catching on, go shower.”

His shirt hit Kent in the face, muted his squawk more than Swoops’ continued laughter could.

The motherfucking _slut_.

Good for him.

In the bathroom, the water turned on, and Kent used the opportunity to strip out of his own clothes. The time slot in the Bruins’ rink was a gamble, but he was a Vegas man, and luck followed he who prepared.

He had a point streak to defend.

And lose. Two weeks, the second round of playoffs. Nineteen games. Not his own record, barely even an older one. A twist of fate, hurtful but not cruel. Expected, almost.

And still a fist to his fucking face.

Between the pipes, the goalie had gone down, had learned from the almost five years Kent had been in the league, and a goal wouldn’t come from surprise, not anymore. Only skill. Precision. Speed.

He’d done it a million times before.

On the other side of the rink, Scrappy had started in on one of the D-men, the other moving towards Kent too fast for Carly to make it to them before the hit would come. And a hit it would be. Behind Kent were two forwards, running at full speed, but they couldn’t fucking touch him. No one could, because he was Kent fucking Parson and he was on fucking fire.

The air in his lungs was clear, burning cold and burning him from within, running through his veins like fire and ice, and if he was ever to die, it wouldn’t be by a bullet. It’d be like this, high on the game, and the roar of the crowd, and with a stick in his hand.

The D-man caught up before he was close enough to the goal to take a shot, eyes focused and stick halfway raised. Not far enough up for a penalty, but close. Far enough up for Kent to go down on one knee, move his head to the side and slide under. The puck was riding ahead, close enough to reach again, far enough away from everyone else to stay with him. All he had to do was get up again, take aim, swing through.

It’d make the highlight reels. Always did whenever he did something stupid. Gambled. As if the vultures kept forgetting what team he played for, what city he called home. Where he was drafted, where he’d stay, and where he belonged.

Which wasn’t fucking Anaheim.

A miscalculation. That was all it was in the end, a miscalculation and a reminder to look both sides before crossing the road. Or doing a stupid fucking stunt on the ice.

The pain was immediate, and Kent his the ice hard, hands already on his face, puck all but forgotten. A whistle blew, and someone came to a stop next to him, but Kent didn’t bother focusing on it just yet. When he pulled his gloves back, they were covered in blood.

”Fuck,” he said, except it came out muffled. Something in his mouth was in the way. Turning onto his knees and hands, Kent spat.

Blood, dark and red against the ice. In the middle of it, as expected, a tooth. Again.

”Jesus fucking Christ, what did you fucking _do_ , motherfucker?”

”Nothing, he was just – how the fuck was I supposed to know he’d fucking _duck_ , who the fuck ducks during a game?”

Someone answered, at the same time as a hand settled on Kent’s back. ”Can you walk?”

After spitting again, more blood, no more teeth, Kent nodded, grasped an outstretched glove.

”Sorry ’bout that, man,” a Duck said. Not wanting to open his mouth again, Kent nodded. Tried not to think about the dizziness settling over him by doing so.

”No concussion,” the medic declared on the bench, and Kent could’ve kissed him. Or cried. Or something equally horrible. ”Better stay on the bench, though, just in case.”

”Got it,” Burke said before Kent had a chance to. His hand came down on Kent’s shoulder, once, almost soft. ”We’ll need you later. The boys can take this one, let ’em have some glory, too.”

”Fuck you,” Kent muttered into the tissues pressed against his lips. Two splits. Good fucking thing he wasn’t seeing anyone, kissing would be a fucking pain. In its glove, Kent’s hand tightened. On the ice, the game continued.

Swoops got the puck, passed, lost it, got it back, passed, checked a guy into the boards.

A Duck got the puck, passed, got it back, passed, iced.

Carly got the puck, lost it, had a quick scrap with a guy against the glass, almost half of the rink before the Duck won, shot it to a teammate, sent it towards the goal, too early, not fast enough, caught by Pops without issue. Back on the ice, onto Bubbles’ stick, a Duck’s, Swoops’, another Duck’s, another check. Minor penalty. Powerplay.

Kent straightened his back, tissue forgotten in his hand.

Rezzy, Swoops, Duck, briefly, Carly, Swoops, Duck, Duck, Duck, Rezzy, Duck, Rezzy, Duck, Swoops, Rezzy -

Air left Kent’s lungs with a broken-off sound, perverted empathy with the Duck taking the blow. Around him, around them all, the crowd gasped, too, gasping that swiftly turned to yelling. Turned ugly, right along with the fight on the ice. From the bench, Kent could almost hear the words, could almost understand them, but they were inconsequential.

Burke was shouting, too. Far more consequential.

Two linemen grabbed the Ace, the refs the Duck, all pulled. More hands joined in, linemen, pulled, nothing. A fist flew through the air, hit someone, sent him sprawling on the ice with his face in his hands. Players yelled, pushed, glanced towards their respective benches and towards the cameras, focused on the task ahead. Grabbed. Pulled. Yelled.

And here Kent had thought he’d be the one in the highlight reels. In the official ones, sure, there was too much blood and too many teeth and too much anger in the fight, but the internet would forget him. His play. His foolishness.

They wouldn’t forget Suárez’. Or Santiago’s.

And neither would the front office.

Bending down for a face-off halfway through third period, when the Ducks had exhausted themselves and he’d stopped bleeding, Kent caught a glimpse of Suárez’ face. Rezzy’s. Luis’. Whatever he was supposed to call someone seeing his own end rather than the puck dropping in front of them both.

Pure and all-encompassing despair, anger and fear luring just beneath, and Kent glanced away before it could hit him. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do, because the death sentence had been served months before, whispered between suits and ties in rooms neither would ever step in. The art of the game, and it wasn’t the game they were paid to play.

It was going to be ugly. Bloody and loud and screaming, and there was nothing anyone could do. Not anymore.

They were a team, had become one in the years passing by somewhere between two Stanley Cups and losses too hard to name and family skates. All for one and one for all, except they weren’t the fucking musketeers, and it was all men for himself. Behind closed doors, at least.

So when the puck dropped, Kent shot it towards Swoops and ran after, not a single glance spared in Rezzy’s direction. There’d be time for condolences, slaps on the back and a beer or two, a goodbye party, but it wasn’t now. Not with the Ducks running past them, ten minutes to go on the clock, and a round and a half until the finals.

The puck made it into an empty goal, a couple of Ducks bending off their paths in frustration, and Kent mourned his point streak. For as long as he had until the puck dropped again.

Nineteen games.

He was going to beat that. Next year. For now, he had thirty-one points added to his stats since Sochi. Best he’d ever had. Late nights and early mornings at the rink paying off.

He’d be fine. Whatever else happened, whoever else went down, he was going to be fine.

-/ \\-

”You’re lucky,” Bazrafkhan said. Dentist, Scrappy’s recommendation. You play hockey, you need a good dentist. Go regularly. Don’t skip it, Parser, the press’ll know.

Kent squeezed his eyes shut, tried to ignore the pain of whatever the fucker was doing to his teeth. There was no answering, not with all the shit in his mouth, but the dentist didn’t expect it. Never did, not even when he’d frowned at the smell of alcohol from Kent’s mouth despite the relentless brushing. And vomiting. And mint pastilles. And more vomiting.

It wasn’t his fault he’d fucked up the dates and only realised he had to go two hours before. Time didn’t exist during playoffs.

”You gotta get yourself a better mouth guard, that old one almost took out a second tooth.” He laughed. ”I usually tell hockey players to keep the mouth guard in, that’ll save their teeth. I’ll have to change my advice now.”

Despite it all, Kent tried to smile, tried to ignore the sudden memory of a mouth guard hitting the ice, of what kissing someone wearing one felt like. Tried not to wonder if that had hurt Jack’s teeth, or if kissing Kent had been worth it. If he’d forgotten all else, as Kent had.

And that was another thing not worth dwelling on, not until after playoffs. Nothing was worth thinking about when there were playoffs to focus on instead.

”No mercy,” he smirked, readjusted the microphone ever so slightly. From her corner, Marina Teterya sent him a sharp look.

The vulture laughed, the polite and plastic laugh that always followed what they thought was a joke. ”So the Schooners will be going down?”

”Well, why don’tcha tune in tonight and watch?” Kent smiled, teeth bared. Full count, good dentist. Three fakes now. More, eventually. If he wasn’t careful.

”You bet I will,” the woman ended and sat back down. Made space for the next.

Kent scratched his chin as Swoops got that one, something about changes on the offensive line. Almost twenty-four years old, and the first year he’d managed a playoff beard that wasn’t a pubescent excuse. TMZ had written an article, something about attractive hockey players. Or maybe it had been Buzzfeed. They’d make something like that.

”Parson?”

The smirk returned. ”What’s up, Johnny?”

John Goldstein, an old face in sports journalism when Bad Bob was still going strong. ”I’ll cut straight to the chase, Kenny-boy. This is the best season you’ve ever had. What’s your secret?”

Beneath the table, out of sight, Kent’s hand gripped at his knees hard enough to lose feeling. ”Well, I don’t think there is a secret. I always bring my A-game, y’know, I don’t slack off, and that’s really all there is to it, to any kinda success, I think.”

”So no deals with the devil?”

Kent grinned, felt the skin stretch across his teeth, real and fake. ”Afraid not. Just good old hard work. Unless my Ma’s done something she hasn’t told me about.”

Laughter, high and fake, and Kent wanted to punch someone’s fucking teeth out.

He needed to buy more scotch. Beer, too, soon.

Later.

*

However much he disliked the Schooners, they were good players. Had to be, to make it to a Conference final. The captain was a sturdy old guy, known throughout the league for taking in at least one rookie a year. Rumour had it that he and his wife couldn’t have kids, that he was compensating. Some time a couple years ago, someone had chirped him about it on the ice, ended up in the hospital. The suspension had only been for three games, and Kent had never seen a man less remorseful than at that press conference.

Best to keep the chirps down.

Like the Aces, the Schooners’ strength was in their offence. Opposite to the Aces, teamwork was the central word, every guy knowing exactly where he needed to be at any given time for any given attack. An old team taking advantage of their age with ever-evolving strategies build upon old ones and new guys taught the ropes as soon as they arrived. As soon as an opponent team dared to relax for even a second, a Schooner was there with the puck and a teammate. Kent could respect that.

Their defence, on the other hand, was where the rope broke. If pushed hard enough.

”This is on you, Parson,” Burke said. ”Don’t be a fucking captain out there, be a forward. Everyone else will be taking care of themselves, you just focus on getting goals, you got me?”

Kent nodded.

”Don’t fucking talk to anyone, don’t fucking look at anyone, don’t even fucking strategise anything that isn’t your own attack.”

”Gotcha.”

Burke nodded, turned to the rest of the team. ”Walter and Crawford, you’re on high fucking watch out there. If you feel like slipping, you let me know right away and get the fuck off the ice. Carlsberg and Troy, keep an eye on the defence, too. And whatever the fuck you do, do _not_ let anyone near Parson. If you see someone as much as look in his direction, get them the fuck away. But be careful, keep the stupid to a minimum, we can’t afford to lose now.”

As if they ever could.

Vegas life, really. Keep running, don’t fucking fall, or everyone you’ve run past will run you over. Stomp you to fucking death.

Didn’t even need to be a голубой to get that treatment.

And so they ran, until sitting down in the dressing rooms during breaks was more collapsing than anything else, until the Russia game seemed like a fucking exhibition game, and until Sarah Parson-Miller threatened to take the first flight to Vegas to kick someone’s ass. Possibly Kent’s, possibly his coaches’. She wasn’t sure.

”I’m good, Ma,” he insisted, toothbrush in one hand, TV remote in the other, game playing low enough she couldn’t hear it.

She sighed. ”If ya say so. But when this is over, you come visit. However it ends.”

He promised. She hung up. One hour ’til June. Forty-five hours ’til the last game. For better or worse, the Schooners would be season history soon. With a last glass of scotch, Kent went to bed. Woke up the next morning with the threat of a hangover, nipped in the bud by a couple glasses of water and an Advil. An Olympic cocktail.

Some days, he wondered how Aleksandr was doing. Then, he didn’t. Went to the rink instead. Practised. Captained. Played.

3-1.

They couldn’t afford to lose. He couldn’t afford any distractions.

The goalie was a veteran, old and hardened, not one to fall for cheap tricks and half-baked strategies. Kept glancing over every other second, glancing back at whatever D-man was near. Signals, possibly, but nothing that had resulted in a punch or a check. Yet.

At centre ice, the puck changed trajectory, and Kent straightened his back. Watched. Waited.

A matter of timing.

Swoops ran forward, followed closely by a Schooner, even more closely by Carly. The best play was to pass, keep the puck out of Schooner hands as much as possible, and that’s what they did. Passed and ran and evaded.

Shot.

Without wasting a beat, Kent set off, a couple of feet, and hit the puck clean on.

The horn blew.

Nothing that would make the highlight reels, nothing that night had been, but it was 3-3, the Conference finals, and pride could come later.

Stepping back, Kent blew the goalie a kiss, received something that in any other setting would’ve been a finger in return.

The smirk didn’t last long, until it came back on, strained this time. ”There an issue?”

The ref glanced up, then back at his buddy. ”Do you have to play that close to the fucking goal? Can’t get it in otherwise?”

Kent set his jaw, widened his smirk, tried not to make chirp out of that. No chirping the refs, a coach had once hold him. Not when they’re checking your play.

No yelling at them, either.

Goalie interference Kent’s fucking _ass_.

”Fucking relax, Parser, Jesus!” Swoops yelled, but Kent didn’t hear him.

”I’m warning you, Parson, you don’t calm down right this second and you’re going in the box. That what you want?”

No answer, not swift enough. For once in his fucking life.

Burke was going to fucking kill him, but that would be later, too. Once it was all over, whatever ‘it’ was going to be, and sitting in the sin bin, biting down on his mouth guard hard enough to strangle a scream, he couldn’t give less of a fuck. About the game, about the Aces, about his teeth, about anything.

But he did. And he always fucking would.

That he didn’t get another penalty when jumping back onto the ice was a fucking miracle, but not one Kent had time to thank anyone for, much less someone who might not even be there. The puck was in motion, the clock was counting down, and his legs were sore. His mouth hurt. Pushing it all down, Kent shot forward, not towards the puck, not yet, just near enough to the goal to freak out the goalie, to distract the D-men, to give Bubbles the time he needed to pass the puck to Swoops. Mid-trajectory, Kent turned, went to the other side, eye on Swoops at every breath and another on the D-men.

A Schooner shot forward, but it was too late. Swoops wasn’t stupid, never fucking had been, and before the guy could make it anywhere near, the puck was in Kent’s possession, and he was gone. Between the pipes, the goalie was once more on his shins, arms stretched to the side, but it didn’t matter, didn’t _fucking_ matter, because Kent was faster than he would ever be, smarter, all-around fucking _better_ and - 

The distance was off. As soon as Kent hit the puck, he knew it, he’d been too fast, hadn’t kept a clear head, hadn’t thought about the D-men swinging in from the side and the instinct to move at the sight.

And so he waited, with baited breath and rage pouring through his veins and pain still throbbing in his mouth, along with everyone else as the puck went through the air, too slow, precise, but too slow. It hit the goalie’s glove, bounced off, hit the other glove that came underneath it, bounced off that, too, first glove again, second glove, line.

A horn blew, startled Kent enough to almost trip over his own feet, startled the goalie out of the little chance he might have had to still save it. The back of his skate hit the puck. Pushed it firmly off the line.

The cameras wouldn’t pick that up, Kent realised absent-mindedly as arms came around him, his helmet was knocked off, not from that angle. A pad would be in the way, a pad and maybe a butt.

Pure fucking luck, but sometimes that was enough.

4:5.

They still had time.

And it wasn’t enough.

-/ \\-

The dressing room was quiet, not a single word exchanged, even the gear hitting the ground soundless. The water turning on and nevermore stopping. Clothes falling to the floor and being thrown against the walls and eventually pulled on.

There would be tears, eventually, shed in the laps or on the shoulders or hair of WAGs or parents or pets. Anger hidden in boxing gloves and golf clubs and private yachts, but there was no space for either in dressing rooms, or anywhere else in a rink, barely between teammates. What they shared instead was far more profound and needed no words. No introduction. No reminder, because it was never forgotten, as much as they tried, and by God, they tried. Together and apart, alone in crowds and in showers and behind dumpsters.

There was still brandy left at home, Kent remembered, focused on. Probably some scotch, too. Definitely beer. Without meaning to, he glanced at Swoops in the stall next to his and received a nod back. An arm slung around his shoulders and the side of a head knocking into his.

They’d be okay. They always were, even if the loss stung and paralysed, burned deeper than a victory ever could, and none of them could breathe.

“You’ll get the Art Ross, at least,” Scraps said at some point during the finals they’d somehow ended up watching together, and Kent punched him in the arm. Pretended he hadn’t been thinking the exact same thing. The loss stung and paralysed and burned, but he’d have that, at least. He’d made sure of it.

And he did. Of course he did. Three times in five years, two in a row, James Traverne clapping with a stiff smile and his wife at his side. And Kent did as he always did. Smiled, spoke, smiled again, raised the trophy above his head and watched every camera in the room go off, watched the entire room turn into a starry night with only empty darkness where light wasn’t flashing. Empty and deep and easy to drown in.

He was Kent fucking Parson, he was on fucking fire, and he needed a fucking drink.


	9. 2014/15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kent makes bad decisions, contemplates arson, and adopts a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, I was shat on by a bird, and my scullery kind of exploded, so here's another chapter.
> 
> Warnings: Kent being a fucking asshole, brief mentions/considerations of suicide, and hockey players being their horrible selves.
> 
> This chapter is brought to you primarily by 'Lucky' by Britney Spears, but also 'Someone Like You' by Adele and 'Somebody That I Used to Know' by Gotye, because this is the EpiKegster chapter, and everything's fucked up.

“Bro, got any more scotch?”

Third time that night, third time in two and a half hours, and of course he did. He was Kent fucking Parson, and he knew his team.

With a slap on the back and two more bottles, Tady was sent on his way. Joined the other guys over thirty in their corner of the rooftop, moaning about wives and kids and mortgages and Suárez’ expired contract.

An old injury and a new rookie, Dallas and farm teams and impending obscurity. It would happen to all of them, one day. Some sooner than others.

In another corner, Greenberg threw a handful of peanuts at Aidy, and Jonesy’s laugh was almost enough to drown out the sounds of the sky above them turning to a children’s drawing. In a third corner, the fireworks only made Bubbles’ fallen face seem even gloomier, and Kent made a note to drag him along to a game before training camps started. Baseball. He liked baseball.

And his girlfriend didn’t. Didn’t much like hockey, either, Kent had surmised, high school sweetheart turned WAG as she was. Perhaps it would work out, perhaps it wouldn’t. There was a bet, but Kent didn’t know about it. Officially. Team rules and all that.

“Shit, I thought you were taking me to a party, not a fucking wake.”

“It’s usually a bit more upbeat,” Swoops said, grabbing a beer off a table and coming in for a hug-and-slap with Kent. He pulled back with a pat on his shoulder, and Kent had a chirp on his tongue before the woman behind him stepped into view. Bob and tube top and a crooked smile. A promise and a tease.

“Hey there, stranger. Happy birthday.”

Perfectly flirty, and Kent responded in turn, pulled her in for a hug and rested his hand on her lower back, just close enough to her ass to respect the fact that she’d arrived with Swoops. Hid the surprise in a smirk in her shoulder. Saved the chirps for later. Pulling back, she stuck out a hand, and he shook it with a grin matching hers.

“Elisheva Tanaka, but people call me Elise.”

“Kent Parson. Parse to everyone here.”

“Jeffrey Troy. In case anyone cares.”

A hand in the air, and perhaps it was the alcohol in his veins, but Kent laughed. The alcohol in his hand was grabbed by Elise before he had a chance to drink more, brought to her lips with one hand, the other resting in the back pocket of her shorts. “So who died?”

“No one,” Kent said. “We just had a vet thrown off the team last month.”

“Suárez? Shit, I didn’t realise he was that popular. Always seemed like a piece of shit to me.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” Swoops recommended.

Elise hummed, caught Kent’s eyes and laughed. “You know I like hockey, you fucker. Figure skating hasn’t taken that from me. Speaking of, get a hattrick in the first season game, willya? I’ve got a bet with my Dad I’d like to win.”

“Will do. And it’s not like we don’t have a couplea figure skating fans here.”

“You mean this motherfucker?” she pointed a thumb at Swoops. “Or your goalie staring at my tits?”

Sure enough, Pops was staring. His wife wasn’t, but his wife might be sleeping with Jonesy. Kent wasn’t getting into that nest of vipers.

“You think it’ll help the mood if I whip ‘em out?”

“Probably. Better not, though, Swoops’ll be chirped enough as it is.”

Elise shrugged. “That’s his headache. I’mma go get something more to drink. Whiskey or beer?”

Swoops perked up. “Beer, please.”

Please, and Kent snickered, waited for the goodbye kiss before getting out the first chirps. Except there wasn’t one, and that was a chirp enough on its own.

“She’s a pal,” Swoops shrugged. “Shit, you think I’m able to tie down a woman like that? She was in town, I invited her along.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Parse, I’m sure.”

“But you guys’re fucking, right?”

“Obviously. You’d have to be gay not to wanna fuck her.”

Kent’s grip on his cup tightened, and he laughed. “Fuck yeah, y’have. Y’know, I was gonna chirp ya for being late, but I get it. Good on ya, bro.”

“Thanks. You know, you don’t - “

“Here y’go.” Elise, and Kent accepted the third glass she was holding. Whiskey. She didn’t wink, but there was a glint in her eyes. “Expensive. For a change.”

“I like to think I’m generous.”

At their side, Swoops frowned, and Elise gently knocked into him. Soft, too soft for what they were putting up, and Kent swallowed down his whiskey. Accepted the kiss to his lips and the hand sneaking a grab at his ass. Glanced at a corner where the older guys were still moaning, the other where Greenberg and Aidy had their arms around each other, flushed with alcohol and youth. A third where Bubbles was still missing his girlfriend. Lashea. Also Canadian.

That was life, and it went on. Training camps were on the horizon. Pre-season. Regular season. PR and the front office breathing down their collective necks.

Jack’s senior year in college, a small voice in the back of his head no amount of alcohol was able to drown out whispered. Bit. Infected.

He grabbed another cup of whiskey.

-/ \\-

“Morning, Mary.”

The nail that greeted him from her middle finger was purple this time, short, but still somehow sharp and with a ring further down that could slice a cheek open with barely a flick of her wrist should she need to.

”Morning, Kenan.”

The head of the rink crew smiled, strained. ”You know you still haven’t given back that set of keys you borrowed three years ago, right?”

”I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Kent said over his shoulder.

The door to the dressing room swung open with a creak, and that was new. Five years ago, it had been all but new, smooth and awe-inspiring.

Home sweet home.

”Morning, fuckers!”

Something clattered loudly, followed by an equally loud cackle. ”Good fucking job, Evie!”

Colin Evans, rookie. Twenty-ninth pick, their first, D-man with forward experience, the first Océanic on the Aces since Kent. The kid who’d stumbled onstage and tried to smile through baby fat and stubble that was more whiskers than anything and that he really should’ve shaved off. Those pictures would follow him for the rest of his career. His face had been red, too, lobster-like, from hairline to neck, probably down to his chest. Wide eyes, as the ones staring at Kent and not on the stick still on the floor.

For some reason, that was how younger players had started looking at Kent.

If he said it didn’t make something inside of him flatter and burn, he’d be lying.

With a relaxed smirk, Kent stepped forward, slowly, as if trying to calm a stray cat. ”It’s alright, kid, no one’ll kill ya for being clumsy. ’specially not those hypocrites, they could drop their own fucking balls if they weren’t attached.”

The rookie – Evans – made a noise somewhere between a snicker and a whine. If Kent wasn’t careful, they’d end up with a puddle on the floor.

”The fuck’re you calling clumsy, you fell over your own fucking skates last season!”

”Remember the bucket incident last year, it was on his fucking head!”

”You fell over my fucking kid!”

Kent rolled his eyes.

”Seriously,” Carly said, almost sending Evans onto the floor with a hand on his shoulder. ”Take a good look, savour the moment. He might be Kent fucking Parson right now, but he won’t look like a superstar for long.”

”Fuck off,” Kent said, held out his hand. ”Nice to meetcha, kid. Great goal against the Mooseheads in the playoffs. Dejardin still shit-talking their coach in the dressing room?”

The boy’s grip was clammy, and his hand retreated like a terrified mouse back into its hole. ”Yeah, he’s – yeah, can’t stand him.”

”They’re the fucking Mooseheads. No one can fucking stand ’em.”

Evans smiled, tried, blinked three times. Made a noise not unlike a squeak, except he was six and a half feet and more than two hundred pounds. ”I’m such a fan.”

”Don’t pop a boner in the fucking dressing room!” someone yelled. Smitty. Fucking asshole.

A panicked glance went to the side, back to Kent. The blush was back in full force, and he needed to get that under control, or they’d eat him alive.

”Don’t be rude to the rookie!” Kent yelled. ”Save the chirps for when he fucks up on the ice!”

Smitty laughed.

Kent tried not to roll his eyes and lowered his voice. ”Seriously, though, they’ll chirp your ass off if you let ’em. Piece of advice, put your foot down sometimes. Set some boundaries. I can’t have your six for the rest of your career.”

Evans nodded, head all but bouncing off his shoulders.

”Good. Now get changed, show us what you’re made of. Take it from me, the faster they know why front office drafted ya, the faster they’ll respect ya.”

An empty promise, but the kid didn’t know that as he all but tripped over his own feet on his way to the stall with his name hastily plastered on. And there, Kent knew, if he pulled hard enough at the corners, a ‘z’ would show up. Or an ‘S’, depending on the corner.

Slipping on the gear was like greeting an old friend, a sense of calm as each part came to rest on or around his body, until only the Parson burning up the ice was visible and the Kent that still jerked off to the memories of Jack Zimmermann was buried as deep as it could go.

”I’m expecting your asses on the ice on five minutes,” he told the men still lacing up. It was going to be ten and they all knew it, but he had to try every once in a while.

”Sure thing, cap,” Bubbles replied with a mock salute.

”Not everyone’s as quick off the ice as they are on it,” Carly complained.

”Like you’re anything but a fucking oaf on the ice, too.”

”You wanna fucking go, Aidy, that whatcha want?”

Kent smiled, back to the rest of the room, and stepped the last few feet out of the room. Out of earshot. Or something.

”Why will Parson – Parser look less like a superstar later?”

A hand came down on his back, the sound loud enough to make Kent wince in sympathy. ”Just wait and see, kid. He’s a fucking dork.”

”As soon as you get on the groupchat, the shine’s gonna disappear real fast,” Swoops added. ”Actually, someone add him!”

”On it,” Bubbles said.

There went the wide eyes.

Probably for the best. For both of them.

-/ \\-

A roar rose through the crowd, delight and laughter and ridicule all in one, spectators of a circus on ice that never failed to surprise in extravagance and faked self-seriousness. Mascots, lights, music, Swoops in his fucking element, swirling and jumping and smiling to the crowd like it was all easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy and he wasn’t stepping off the ice harking his lungs out.

”Put on dress and do routine,” Pops muttered under his breath, like he hadn’t been talking their ears off about an ice show in the dressing room. Elise and Krista Reinhardt and tits and glitter.

”Fuckin’ figure skater,” Smitty agreed, like his oldest daughter hadn’t just been signed up for classes and he wasn’t going to show them all pictures on the upcoming roadie.

”Whatever gets him laid,” Kent added, like the memory of Aleksandr’s mouth on his wasn’t fading. Like Jack’s never had, not after two years, not after eight. Like he didn’t miss it more than he’d ever missed anything in his entire life.

The crowd roared again, louder this time, loud enough to all but shatter Kent’s eardrums and send a spark of adrenaline down his spine as the ice greeted him. Underneath his feet, too close to his cheek, beneath the puck by his stick in the goal, raised high in a celly. Cold and unyielding, everything Kent had ever needed.

Laughter followed on TV as he jumped onto the counter by the bench, allowing Smitty to get on for his shift. A bottle of water appeared, Evans’ glove. Kent swung his legs over and squirted some into his helmet. Mouth. Whatever.

”Nice job, Parson,” Burke said as the clock moved further to zero. ”Keep it up.”

Handing the bottle back, Kent looked back out onto the game. ”Will do, coach.”

Jack had always hated pre-season, had always hated the Sharks, had always disliked the way Kent would use much stronger words than necessary. Jack had never had feelings as strong as hatred, unless his love for hockey counted. Even that seemed more a part of him than a feeling, something deeply etched into his DNA, impossible to remove without tearing out everything else that made him _Jack_.

On the ice, Swoops shot the puck just above the goalie’s shoulder, slapped Bubbles’ raised hand. Around them, a horn blared, the crowd roared, the Sharks looked ready to rip something in two. Or someone.

A new shift was coming up. With a last mouthful of water, Kent shook Jack out of his head, as much as he could, and got himself ready. Stepped onto the ice. Ran. Shot.

Won.

Not a new feeling, not a new experience, but every year, without fail, for the length of one night and one night only, it still felt like it. Sweet and tangy, fire and ice, and he could drown in it. At some point, loss would come and push the taste to the back of his throat, make him long for it once more, but until then, he had ice in his lungs and in his capillaries and in his nuclei.

At some point, loss would come, but for the entirety of September and half of October, it didn’t. And Kent allowed the ice to swallow him up, make room in him for nothing but adrenaline and blood and victory.

Nothing else.

The goal was coming up fast. Behind him, Kent knew, were two Stars, both bigger, both slower, both fighting for breath and left behind in the icy dust of his skates. Between the pipes, the goalie had gone down, eyes firmly on Kent, ready for whatever shit he’d try to pull this time, and Kent almost grinned. Fuckers were never fucking ready.

A few feet in front of the goal, as the goalie’s eyes widened, Kent upped his speed, one step, two, three, four, before coming to an abrupt halt in front of him. Instinctively, the man recoiled, created an opening, doomed his team. The puck flew in an inch or two off his right skate, the horn blew, and Kent roared with it, turned it to a smirk, lifted his stick in the air.

5-2 turned to 6-2, two minutes left on the clock. A fucking hattrick, a nine-game point streak.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he was on fucking fire.

”Good game,” he greeted the captain as they lined up, trying to keep a smirk off his face and failing miserably. Victory was in his lungs, youth in his veins, the world bare at his feet.

”Fuck you,” the man answered, shook his hand still.

”Do it for the cameras, man,” Kent said, caught himself before he could give him a wink, too. Cameras. Instead, he skated towards the bench, a swagger in his slide and a whistle under his breath.

”Parson!”

The tune died on his tongue. Fucking vultures, getting too fucking close to the rink. No security nearby. No choice. Be nice, a voice in the back of his mind sounding suspiciously like Marina Teterya drawled.

”Benny,” he greeted, turned up the smirk a couple of notches. Pulled off his helmet, ran a hand through his hair.

”Great game out there,” Benny said, smile as wide and slimy as always. ”I didn’t think I could keep saying this, but you’ve really stepped up your offensive. When do you think you’ll hit your limit?”

Kent’s smirk widened. And people wondered why he didn’t want to talk to the fucking press. ”I can’t tell ya that, sorry. I just go on the ice and do my best, y’know? Play my hardest, take chances when I see ’em, it just ends up giving results in the end.”

Benny nodded. ”Of course. So the Parson climax is still far off into the future?”

The double entendre was obvious, too much by even his standards. ”I’d certainly hope so.”

”But about your ’taking chances’ - ” Actual fucking air quotes. Kent wasn’t sure whether to laugh or throw one of the rookies into the guy and escape in the chaos. ” - you’ve been accused of dirty plays more than any other player in the league. Don’t you think you’re beginning to push it a little much these past few seasons?”

”As I said, I take chances whenever I see ’em,” Kent answered. Like he hadn’t been playing the same fucking way since Juniors. ”And sure, sometimes that gets me into the penalty box, but it’s not like I get to sit down for anything else. A man needs breaks!”

The smile, more fitting on a snake, widened. If his jaws suddenly unhinged and swallowed him raw, Kent wouldn’t be surprised. ”Yes, you’re on the ice more than any other player on the Aces - ”

”I _am_ the captain.”

“ - and, according to ESPN’s article last year, one of the best players in the league, if not the world. Do you ever feel that pressure when you’re on the ice?”

Fucking morons who needed to get a fucking life. “I don’t, no. I just go out and do my best for the team. Whatever anyone wanna say about my accomplishments, they’re as much the boys’ as mine. Hockey’s a team sport, I’m just one cog in the machine.”

“Still, you can’t ignore the impact you’re having on the sport, both with your records and your social media presence, bringing it more into this century and to a new generation of fans. Ten years ago, people were talking about how James Traverne was modernising the sport, but there’s no doubt that you’re doing that, too.”

Traverne, and that was the trap Kent wasn’t going to step into. ”I’m just playing the game, man. Doing my own thing the best I can, and, yeah, it’s going pretty great, but I don’t think I’m doing anything new. Hockey was just fine before I started playing, and hockey’ll be just fine when I retire. Same with Traverne. Now, my legs’re killing me, I need to go stretch out or coach’ll kill me tomorrow. I’m glad y’liked the game.”

”Of course, thanks for your time. Good luck against the Blackhawks next week.”

With a nod, Kent was off.

Fucking vultures and their fucking headlines.

-/ \\-

It had happened once or twice that a vulture called Kent a good captain. Usually a new one, brought in from football or basketball or baseball, intimidated by the ice and the speed. No one laughed, Marina would kill them if they did, but Bubbles had come close. Carly, too. Suárez.

He was doing his best. That’s all the vultures would get, with a sly smile or a proper one, a glint in the eye no one noticed.

Still, Kent knew his team. Knew when to watch out for Pops’ moods, sort of why Scraps didn’t really speak with his family, how Smitty kept wishing for sons but always seemed relieved when the ultrasound showed a daughter. How Aidy’s aunt had recently been diagnosed with lung cancer, it wasn’t going to be long, and that Carly had had an affair with a figure skater nine years older than him when he was eighteen at the Olympics in Salt Lake City but would only ever admit to it when he was drunk. How he’d thought the woman had been the love of his life. How she’d been married.

Sometimes he tried to help. Slap a back, congratulate, rearrange sleeping arrangements, offer up a glass of something strong or tickets to a game. Other times he didn’t.

He was doing his best. Captain’s duties.

For better or worse, he knew his team. Knew what to expect.

”Draft’s looking good this year,” Scraps noted before the Halloween game, pulling on his costume.

Captaincy meant keeping your eyes and ears open and staying on top of what was happening. That much, Kent had learned. Right alongside not reacting. Focusing on the bench. Being attracted to women and not a former fucking teammate that wasn’t fucking talking to him and smiled on twitter and set his entire body on fire.

”I don’t think the draft’s gonna be the story this year,” Smitty said.

Scraps frowned. ”Is anything happening?”

It was Carly who answered, because of course it was. ”Jack Zimmermann’s graduating this year. Gotta sign somewhere soon enough.”

Kent closed his eyes. If there was one thing he’d truly learned from the past eight years, it was that he had one major weakness, and one major weakness only.

Who wasn’t _fucking_ talking to him.

”He’s probably going to the Falconers,” Carly said, with as much surety as he had when Jack’s cocaine OD had been the big story. Before Kent had punched him in the face and it had all died out.

”Why do you think that?” Scraps asked.

”It’s a new team,” Carly explained, sounding every bit an NHL commentator. Future career option, once he was finally done playing. ”They’re trynna establish themselves. An old-school player like Zimmermann would give them that spark of history they need. With his Dad’s name, you know.”

Kent’s hand clenched in the cheap, brown fabric.

”And they already have a ragtag team. I mean, Robinson that NWHL GM? It’s like they’re trynna hit some sorta quota or something.”

”What do you mean by that?” Bubbles asked, voice just on the wrong side of sharp.

Carly raised his hands in surrender. As if that was enough. ”Didn’t mean it like that, man. I’m just saying, a Jewish junkie would fit right in.”

”Don’t they already have that Russian guy, Markov?” Smitty asked.

”Mashkov,” Pops said. ”Not junkie.”

”That’s what I’m saying!” Carly exclaimed. ”It’s the team of the fucking snowflakes!”

”He probably won’t go to one of his Dad’s old teams,” Greenberg added.

Carly nodded. ”Definitely not, it’d be career suicide. And they won’t want him, either.”

A small flinch, a wrong move, and Kent’s stick clattered to the ground, followed by a deafening silence. Stares were on his back, he could almost taste them in the back of his throat, but Kent didn’t turn. Instead, he picked up the stick. Kept his eyes on the bench.

”Do you know anything, Parse?” Chaplin asked. ”I mean, you guys were - ”

”The Blackhawks won’t beat themselves,” Kent interrupted. ”Unless they look at your face, of course, but it’s not like you’re getting a shift, is it? The rest of you, get dressed. Marina’s expecting pictures. Not with the Blackhawks, though. And don’t fucking touch that shit on their heads, twitter’ll tear your asses apart. If Marina doesn’t do it first.”

A collective shudder ran through the dressing room, enough for Kent to clear the last couple of feet to the door and slip out. He needed to go over the strategy with Burke one more time, anyway, would shout it from the fucking rooftop if it would make him any more believable. Not that anyone would ask. The vultures would only want to know about the costumes, how uncomfortable they were to skate in, how he was able to score like that in it, if he felt silly wearing it.

There were worse things to do than look silly for a couple minutes. Like visibly shaking when stepping onto the ice. Or losing the game that followed.

Good fucking thing he was Kent fucking Parson and on fucking fire.

That night, without thinking, with too much scotch in his veins, he opened up twitter. Scrolled. Searched.

Masochism, he decided as the first pictures began popping up. He had always had a thing for having his hair pulled.

It wasn’t an official account, at least. Too much pie.

And he didn’t follow.

And Jack was barely in the pictures.

But whenever he was, a jolt of something that wasn’t jealousy and wasn’t lust shot through Kent’s spine, made him want to throw his phone onto the fucking floor and step on it for good measure.

Perhaps he should’ve gone to college, too. It looked like they had fun. Jack was even smiling in some of the pictures he was in. Most of them.

He’d smiled like that on the Océanics, too. Occasionally. Hadn’t eaten any pie on the Océanics, though, and perhaps Kent should’ve tried giving him some. Perhaps things would’ve been different if he had.

Perhaps he wouldn’t come home to an empty apartment every night if he had.

Another glass of scotch, and the thought was seared from the top of his head.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he was on fucking fire.

*

When exactly Jack returned to his dreams, he wasn’t quite sure. At some point after Halloween, somewhere close to Thanksgiving. Before the game against the Predators.

Sometimes, he’d be right there, warm under Kent’s touch, soft under his mouth, taking everything Kent offered him and offering all of himself in return. Sometimes he’d be lurking in a shadow, always wordless and out of reach but impossible to ignore.

Other times again he’d be cold and stiff on a bathroom floor with a poison-orange bottle a few inches away, and a knowledge deep in the pit of Kent’s stomach that nothing he could do could bring him back.

And he woke up bathed in sweat, or rock-hard, or both, coming as soon as he got a hand around himself or halfway to the bathroom to hark out his guts into the toilet bowl before his brain could fully catch up. His rookie year all over again. Before Jack called and something that was almost alright returned.

Even when awake, eventually, sometimes, during some mundane activity, Jack would pop up in his mind, as if he’d never truly left, just gone for a short break before returning to take up every inch of space.

Watching a movie, or a series, or anime, he’d wonder if Jack had ever watched it. If he liked it. If he didn’t.

Cooking dinner, he’d wonder how much hot sauce Jack would like added. Probably more than Kent. They’d fight about it, he knew, playfully, then kiss the words away until laughter took their place. He could taste Jack on the tip of his tongue, almost, just before remembering that Jack was in Massachusetts, getting a degree in fuck knew what and playing on a fucking NCAA team that had only made the Frozen Four twice in ten years. When the thought ended, the taste would be gone, as had it never been there at all. Which it hadn’t.

And he’d be jerking himself off, and Jack would be as present in his mind as had he been right there in the room, kissing him through every last wave of pleasure.

Jack was a ghost that refused to leave.

Kent wanted him to come back until his body ached with it and he left for the rink to skate until he could breathe again.

And perhaps that was why he accepted Bjørnholt’s proposal of a drink after the Nashville game – just one, not a gay bar, a sports bar, and they’d just talk. They were in the same boat, even if they really fucking weren’t, because Kent was Kent fucking Parson, and Bjørnholt had been traded for the fifth time in his career. Not quite Milwaukee, teetering on the edge, and Kent had never even been to Reno.

One drink. One drink, and conversation, and no repetition of the kiss they’d shared in Sochi. What happened in Sochi stayed in Sochi.

And what happened in Nashville stayed in Nashville, Kent decided as soon as Bjørnholt’s foot met his under the table, clumsy but purposeful, and his apartment was nice, and his bed was nice, and his dick was nicer.

Nine months. He was only human.

He didn’t taste like Jack.

Somehow, he still did.

”Fuckin’ playboy,” Smitty remarked an hour later as they passed in the hotel hallway, him still in his official suit, Kent in a flannel and a cap pressed far enough down for no one to recognise him. With a little luck.

Next to him, Pops added something in Russian, and Kent knew enough to be able to put rent boy next to his name along with everything else he’d been called through the years. Better than голубой.

”Gotta make money somehow,” he replied, smirked, walked just a little faster. Hoped he could blame the rasp in his voice on the Tennessee spring.

”And you call yourself a New Yorker.”

Smitty or Tady, Kent couldn’t tell.

And it didn’t matter, because they bought it. He got away with it.

And that was another way they could do it, him and – him and Jack, they could get away with it, and he’d always known that, but now he had proof, and they could do it, in the NHL, on different teams. Meet up before or after games, in the off-season, during breaks, more often if Jack ended up close to Vegas. The thought wrapped around his organs. Squeezed. To have Jack so close, finally on the border of the same world as Kent, and still so far out of reach.

They’d have to be subtle, always, but they could do it. On the same team, or on different team, they could do it. Together.

They could be in love like that. Play again. Together.

The fist in Kent’s pocket tightened, itched to punch something, himself if he had to.

Love.

Still, the thought remained as he returned to his hotel room, changed for bed, brushed his teeth, jerked off, settled beneath the covers with his phone.

There was still time. He just had to convince him - 

”What’re you watching?”

Eighteen years, and Kent still almost jumped a foot into the air. ”Jesus fucking Christ, y’can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

”Sorry,” Evans said, hair damp and curling at the edges. Kent hadn’t even heard him come in. Never mind shower.

He had a dimple. Kent hadn’t noticed that before. ”’s okay. Just don’t do it in the future.”

Evans promised. ”But, seriously, what’re you watching?”

Kent shrugged. ”Just some show.”

”It’s animated.”

”It’s anime.”

”Oh, those Japanese cartoon things? Like Pokémon?”

Kent nodded. ”Exactly like Pokémon. I had a girlfriend who really liked the shit. Got me hooked.”

”Cool.” Evans smiled, hesitated for just a moment before walking to his bed and plopping down. Within seconds, soft snores rose through the otherwise quiet night air. Kent should really close the windows before either of them caught a cold.

Had it been anyone else, he would’ve been chirped within an inch of his life. Good thing Evans was too fucking starry-eyed to think of that.

On his own bed, Kent turned off his phone, closed his eyes. Tried not to think of dark hair and blue eyes and warm hands. Dreamt of them anyway.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he was on fucking fire. When Jack came, too, they’d burn the entire fucking league down together, like they once had. Like they were meant to.

He just had to figure out how.

-/ \\-

“Le numero t’as - “

The phone hit the other end of the couch, and Kent didn’t bother to turn it off before going to bed.

_How_.

He could call Bob again. Like he had in his rookie year when Jack was in fuckwhere, Ontario, rather than fuckwhere, Massachusetts, when he wasn’t talking and Kent had missed him so much he couldn’t breathe. Except Bob wouldn’t tell him _shit_.

The puck left Swoops’ stick mid-swirl, hit Kent’s mid-run, just beneath Smitty’s nose. There was no time for hesitation, never was, no need to, and so Kent ran, kept to the middle of the ice, or just the right of it. Never near the boards, not with Carly looking as mean as he did a few feet off the goal. Gritting his teeth, he kept running, kept swerving, kept his eyes on the fucking goal.

Fuckers acting as if he hadn’t been one half of their one-timer, hadn’t sat through hours upon hours of history documentaries and extra training and panic attacks, as if he hadn’t been the one to hold Jack’s cold and limp body in the middle of the fucking night until the fucking ambulance arrived.

Someone was breathing down his neck, sticking out his stick too far, probably eyeing his teammate on Kent’s right. Bubbles was there, too, could receive the puck if Kent needed to get away, but he didn’t. A little more speed, that was all it took. A little more speed, and the goal was in sight, and Kent could almost breathe.

Alicia would be even worse. Bob would be a desperate measure, Alicia would tear him to fucking pieces before he could as much as mention her son.

A quick step to the side and Carly was behind him, too, a flick of the wrist and the puck flew through the air, hit the goal, bounced onto Pops’ shoulder and off behind the line.

If Kent wanted any kind of say in where the fuck Jack ended up, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

”That’s enough for today, boys. Go home and fuck your wives or something, I don’t wanna look at your ugly mugs until tomorrow.”

Together, they had torn up Juniors, left everyone else behind in the fucking dust. They could do it again, Kent felt it in his guts. If only Jack would fucking _listen_ to him.

Before he could as much as take off his jersey in the dressing room, Evans was there, all heavy breaths and reddened skin and glinting eyes. ”That goal was amazing! How did you make it – how did you do that?”

Kent smirked, stretched the skin of his face to a breaking point, undressed. ”It’s not that hard, really. Just practice. A little patience.”

”Easy for you to say,” Evans smiled, somehow wider than before. ”You’re Kent Parson.”

Before Kent could say anything else, chuckle, chirp him, Carly’s hand came down on his shoulder. ”Dude, control your crush. You can suck Parser’s dick in your free time.”

The effect was immediate. Evans’ mouth fell open, his face turned an impossible shade of red. ”I don’t – I’m not - ”

”No shame about it,” Bubbles added. ”Except you’ve got shit taste. I mean, look at him.”

Offence was something Kent hadn’t felt in years. Annoyance, sure. Empathy, possibly. ”Come on, leave the kid alone. Go shower, you reek.”

Greenberg folded his hands, batted his eyelashes at an imaginary person next to him. ”Oh, Parse, you’re so strong and _hard_ working!”

“Ejaculate talent in me,” Pops joined in.

”Someone’s English’s improved,” Kent muttered.

Throwing himself fully over Evans’ shoulders, Carly moaned theatrically. ”Oh, _Kent_! Hit me like one of your pucks!”

”Enter my net!”

”Teach me how to receive!”

”I’m not kidding, cut it out or you’ll be doing suicides until you puke.”

As if he would be met with anything but laughter. Still. He had to try.

Or just wait it out, let the joke kill itself. Kid needed to toughen up, anyway, if he wanted to make it in the league.

And so Kent waited, until the fuckers moved on to something else and Evans was left standing, half-dressed, looking like he was about to cry. Or punch someone. Kent knew the feeling.

”Try not to listen to them, they’re just trynna get a rise outta ya.”

At his sides, Evans’ knuckles were almost white. He was biting his lip, looking every bit the nineteen year-old he was.

Kent looked around, stepped a little closer to the kid, careful not to get too close. ”And if what they’re saying is true - ” Evans almost jumped. ” - I won’t be the one tellin’ on ya, alright? If you can play, you can play and all th-”

”I’m not a fucking fag,” Evans spat, voice barely above the whisper. ”’m not disgusting like that.”

His eyes were hard against Kent’s, grey and foreign, extinguishing something that wasn’t hope and had never been. ”Of course you’re not.”

Evans nodded, straightened his back. Went back to dressing like there weren’t still tears in his eyes.

Dry-eyed, Kent did the same. At some point, someone had to tell Evans what kind of words he had to be careful with, what trouble it could get him in. How scary Marina Teterya was. But for now, he had more important things to focus on.

-/ \\-

It would have to be when they were playing in Boston. Or if that didn’t work, somehow, he could try Montréal. During Christmas break, stop by, hope Jack was there, hope he could catch him without his parents noticing, or during a run, like he did back in his rookie year, somehow …

No. It would have to be in Boston. They were playing them in December, plenty of time before Jack had to sign anything. Plenty of time to talk to the front office, get everything settled.

Back on track.

The party was unexpected, anything but ideal, but Kent had found Jack at more parties than he wanted to think about. He could find him again, finally talk some fucking sense into that thick, Canadian skull of his. Jack would probably be in his room, anyway, they could hide there. And if he arrived late enough … whatever an EpiKegster was, it probably included a shit-ton of beer. People would be drunk. And no one was expecting a professional hockey player at a frat party. Or in a rented Subaru parked far enough away from the hotel that anyone would notice. As long as he was careful, it’d be okay. They’d be okay, him and Jack.

Sneaking out past Swoops was a piece of cake. Despite his playboy persona (rumoured by the paps, more than known in the league), the guy never went to bed later than ten PM before game days. The plane had touched down at nine, Kent let him have the bathroom first, waited in there afterwards until he was asleep.

The coaches were trickier, but Pops solved that. Turned out a Russian whose wife was probably cheating on him was far more important to keep an eye on.

He just had to be back before morning. Like a fucking fairytale.

Saturday nights in Boston, he found, were colourful. Alive. Not quite Vegas, but nothing was ever quite like Vegas, except, possibly, Saturday nights in Smalltown College, Massachusetts. A fucking Mardi Gras of music audible several streets over, beer cans and abandoned stilettos leading the way like fucking breadcrumbs.

Perhaps it really was a fairytale. Some shitty, warped version of one, at least, where an old Subaru could make it as a white horse. Or a pumpkin. There was no dragon in front of the castle, though, unless you counted the guy with the flow and ’stache yelling at a house on the opposite side of the road. They had met before, Kent remembered. Shitty. The guy Jack hadn’t been fucking.

”Evening.”

The guy’s mouth snapped shut. ”Holy shit.”

”Zimms here?”

”Inside – bro, aren’t you supposed to be at a game?”

”Not until tomorrow,” Kent said, halfway through the door and swiftly hidden among the sea of people inside. Impressive, given that the house really looked like it could come down any moment. The wonders of gratuitous amounts of alcohol.

In a living room, a couple was making out on the disgusting green couch that had been outside the last time he’d been there. Or something that might once have been a couch and now looked sentient. Possibly a carrier of the plague. The couple didn’t seem to mind, not about the potential illness or death or the amount of people surrounding them. The guy’s hand was well up the girl’s top, and she was already grinding down.

To be young and horny. And straight.

”Hey, bro, isn’t that - ”

Kent ducked into the kitchen, nearly fell over the police tape set up a couple feet inside. To keep the room sanitary, presumably. And it was. Hadn’t been when Kent had last been there, someone’s Mom must’ve had a heart attack and done the whole thing over, somehow kept it up. There were even pies on the table, or the sad remains of pies after a pack of wolves had stampeded through.

Odd fucking frat house Jack had found for himself.

One room left, another living room (or dining room? Did frat guys eat in their houses?), filled to the brink as the first one, with more guys swirling their heads in his direction, however. Should’ve worn sunglasses, Kent realised, much too late.

But there he finally was, leaning against the wall like a wannabe James Dean (or maybe James Dean had been a wannabe Jack Zimmermann), looking like everything Kent had imagined and someone he couldn’t recognise at the same time. Something in the pit of his stomach seized, desire or jealousy or something he refused to name.

He looked so much older than when Kent had first loved him. Sharper cheekbones, shorter hair. Broader, too, filled out like a proper hockey player. Happier.

Kent wanted to run his tongue along his jaw and _bite_.

There was a solo cup in his hand. A long-forgotten worry ran through Kent’s body. At least he wasn’t alone, even if he was still drinking – was he still on medication? Did he still need someone to look after him, did he still have panic attacks, was there someone to – and Kent almost let out a laugh as his eyes tore themselves from Jack and landed on the kid all but pressed up against Jack. Because it was a kid, probably not even twenty, short, blonde, big brown eyes looking like Jack like he hung the fucking moon.

You’re not subtle, kid, Kent wanted to say. Pushed down the last shiver of shame and tried not to dwell on the way Jack was looking back. His mind was playing tricks on him, and even if – Kent had had others, too. And Jack would be out of college soon, back where he belonged.

”I’m serious!” Jack said, somehow loud enough for Kent to hear over the music and the sea of people still separating them. Even his voice sounded different. Deeper. More mature.

He was looking at the phone in the kid’s hands, clearly chirping. Something dark and tight settled in Kent’s stomach, something that was pushed down before it could make its way up his throat as he approached.

”I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t seeing it myself.” Hand in pocket, smirk in place, everything was going to be alright. ”Jack Zimmermann. At a party. Taking a selfie.”

A small tang of satisfaction shot through Kent as Jack’s head snapped away from the kid. Tired eyes, blue eyes, so _fucking_ blue, wide as they met his. ”Kent.”

It was a whisper. Kent was sixteen years old again.

”Heya, Zimms. Didja miss me?”

”Oh, my gosh!” the kid said, face brightening and fingers flying across the screen of his phone. Twitter, Kent noticed. Perhaps he was the pie kid, then.

Jack said nothing. Of course he didn’t. Jack was never much one for that.

Kent opened his mouth, ready to start the fire with something about a room, some privacy, some space, but he never got the chance.

”Do you mind – I know this is such a bother, but I can’t believe you showed up at our party – would you mind possibly taking a picture with me?”

Southern. Poor kid.

Jack’s eyes were still on him, his lips still slightly parted, and Kent wanted nothing more than to feel them on his skin. ”Sure thing. Lighting okay, though?”

The kid smiled, waved a hand in front of his face. Fucking loose wrist. ”It’s fine, I can make it work. Do you mind - ”

And Kent moved closer, tried not to notice the way Jack’s face had hardened, the smile from before completely gone, the way his hand was clenching on the paper cup. It was going to break if he continued, cover him and the floor in beer.

”Okay, here we go, Mr. - ”

”Call me Parse. This isn’t a fucking presser.”

The kid beamed, angled his phone, smiled. And Kent smirked with him.

By the time the phone came back down and the kid was thanking him profusely, not touching, never touching, a couple more guys had slid up, phones in hand and hopeful looks on their faces.

”Take care, alright?” he asked, got a nod from the kid, then turned to the newcomers.

Walking into a hockey frat house during a party might not have been the best way to do this.

” - probably tied for first - ”

” _Probably_ tied.”

” - currently leading the league in sports and assists - ”

” - bro, currently on a _31-game_ point streak - ”

” - the Aces’ record book is just his name!”

”That’s Kent Parson.”

Damn straight it was, Kent thought as he smiled at yet another camera phone, three guys, one maybe a little too over-enthusiastic, the other two more chill. He caught a glimpse of the picture as he walked away, almost smiled at the hand over his face, obscuring it completely. A shame.

Too bad he couldn’t care less.

Sometime between the second and third picture, Jack had disappeared. Probably gone upstairs, if only Kent could make it to the stairs without having to do another picture, his room had been just - 

”Fuck! Watch where you’re going, bro!”

Kent opened his mouth, shut it again. Standing in front of him was the tiniest woman Kent had ever seen. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of shutter shades that she somehow managed to pull off, probably with the help of a messy pixie cut, but through the shade, her eyes had narrowed in a way that made Kent want to run.

Before any sweat could break out on Kent’s skin (something he’d blame on the alcohol and probable mildew in the air), she nodded towards a nearby table. ”You. Me. Beer pong. Now.”

”Oh, shit,” someone said not too far from them.

Kent had no reason to follow her. None at all, apart from the way her face had twisted and the way he knew with absolute certainty that she could kill him and get away with it.

Jack could wait a couple of minutes. Kent had waited so long already.

Back in Juniors, back when everything had been alright, he’d been a beer pong champion. It was possible he still was, or possible he’d gone rusty, whatever it was, she was a fucking god and he a believer. The flicks of her wrist were hypnotic, the roar of the crowd only adding to the feeling of a ritual. A goddess claiming her mortal sacrifice. Whenever she frowned or the tip of her tongue stuck out in concentration, he patted himself on the back. At least he was putting up a fight, even if it was a losing one.

The beer of his losses was bitter on Kent’s tongue, tasted like long-lost memories and bank accounts always scurrying close to a red line. It tasted like his first kiss, like butterflies and dread and morning regrets and being on top of a roller-coaster, looking out at the world laid bare hundreds and hundreds of feet down. Ready for the drop.

”Eat it, Parson!”

As he downed the last of the beer, defeat raw and buzzing beneath his skin, one of the largest men he’d ever seen – and he’d seen him before, somewhere – grabbed the woman by the waist and lifted her up, paraded her around until they were in front of Kent. With a slap to the giant’s shoulder, he put her down. A look of absolute regency in her eyes, she took the cup from Kent’s hands and placed it on the table before grabbing him by the shirt to pull him down to her level. For a long, terrible second Kent feared she was going to kiss him.

She didn’t.

The burp was majestic. Regal, even. Godly. When she was done, she let go of his shirt and nodded, a final show of respect. Had she been a guy, Kent would’ve gotten down on his knees and sucked her dick right there and then.

A bond had been forged. A bond of bro-hood, that, if broken, would lead to his immediate demise.

Someone pulled out a phone, another stuck a notepad in his hands and a pair of glasses onto his face. The woman slid to his side, paradoxically small next to him. How that much might and regality fit into something that tiny, Kent would never understand, and it wasn’t his to question. What was his was to point to the notepad and pose with her.

A flash, and the woman was gone, replaced by two men on either side of Kent, D-men judging by the size, one the giant that had paraded the woman around, the other the most beautiful man Kent had ever seen, holy _shit_. And he’d fucked Jack fucking Zimmermann. One was holding a phone, and so Kent smiled, held up the ping pong ball in his hand.

That was one fantasy he wasn’t going to indulge. Not with Jack waiting for him upstairs.

This time, he managed as far as the doorway, stairway in sight.

”Brah!”

An arm settled over his shoulder. The dense odour of most likely home-brewed booze followed a second later.

Biting down the urge to cover his nose, Kent pulled up a smirk. ”What’s up?”

‘stache guy – Shitty – smiled, wide and sloppy. The flow was new. Kent had known several men who’d kill for a flow like that. The smouldering bong in his hands did bring the look somewhat closer to summer of ’69 than Stanley Cup final, though.

”You’re here again,” Shitty yelled. Obnoxious, drunk and loud. Jesus fucking Christ.

“I was just gonna talk to Zimms for a bit. He’s upstairs, right?”

Shitty sighed theatrically before taking a long drag of his bong. If he didn’t want to come back to the hotel reeking of marijuana, Kent was going to have to leave him soon.

”Jack Laurent Zimmermann, that motherfucking beaut of a man.” The guy shook his head. ”Holed up in his room, most likely, yeah. Dude’s as good a partier as a fuckin’ log. Not to say logs can’t be good partiers, but … ”

”Thanks,” Kent interrupted before nearly toppling onto the floor as he tried and failed to pull himself free of the man’s grip. What a way to get injured that would be. Burke’d fucking kill him.

And then the pressure around his shoulders was gone.

”Lardo!” Shitty all but screamed before launching himself off Kent to cling to a woman instead, nearly bringing Kent’s hearing with him.

The woman (Lardo? Pong goddess?) pulled a disgusted face but didn’t push him away. ”Fuck, Shits, you fucking _reek_!”

”Just let me love you, Lards,” Shitty (Shits??) whispered, loud enough to be heard over the music.

Lardo (Lards?) rolled her eyes. ”You can do that some other time. What’s up, Parson? Need your ass kicked again or something?”

”I’m just here to talk to Zimms. Jack.”

”If that’s what you’re here for, go do that,” she shrugged, eyes narrow and piercing Kent’s fucking soul. ”But if you do something stupid, I will personally come to your home and fuck you up.”

She knew.

”I’m just here to talk to him,” Kent repeated. ”I’ll see you around.”

”I don’t think so,” Lardo said as he turned. Or maybe that was just his imagination.

Jack’s room wasn’t difficult to find, once you got past the yellow police tape. However dilapidated the house was, the rooms were at least still where they’d been a year and a half prior.

He rapped on the door. ”Zimms? You in there?”

No answer, but the sound of someone moving was clear through the cheap wood.

”You just gonna let me stand here all night?”

The moving sounds stopped. For a long second, Kent thought maybe someone else had sneaked into Jack’s room, didn’t want to get caught, but then the door opened, revealing a Jack so different yet so familiar and now up so close Kent wasn’t sure what the hell to do with himself.

So he kissed him.

There were hands on his hips almost immediately, pushing away with as much force as Kent was pushing in, almost enough, gentler as Kent’s hands cradled his cheeks. A yield, soft lips without even a hint of alcohol, instinctively, like when they’d been eighteen. And twenty. And twenty-two. Kent ran his tongue over his lower lip, thin and gently chapped, and Jack gasped, grasped Kent’s hips a little tighter, enough invitation for Kent to slip his tongue in. His hands slid down Jack’s chest, brushed briefly over his abs, enough for Jack to gasp again.

Behind them, the door slammed like an afterthought, pushed back by hands and mouths exploring and rediscovering, settling into old patterns and carving new.

”Fuck, Zimms,” Kent managed before Jack’s legs hit the side of his bed and they both stumbled down on it. No more words came, not with Jack’s mouth on his and his hands in his hair, on his back, his ass, his waist. He tasted the same, smelled the same, and Kent was ready to drown in it, drown in _him_ , just like when they had been teenagers and everything had been new. When they’d stumbled and fumbled together, figured out how to use their bodies for something that wasn’t hockey but had felt like it. When everything had been good and bright and the future even more so, because they had been KennyandZimms, ParsonandZimmermann, fucking invincible.

So many things had changed. So many things, but not this, not the way Jack’s hand slid under his shirt, now completely untucked from his trousers, the way the cap fell from his head and onto the floor, how Kent moved to straddle him properly, cradling Jack’s face in his hands like he was something precious, because he _was_ , how he could still grind down in a way that made them both gasp.

It had been so long.

”Kenny,” Jack whispered, half to his lips, half to his jaw.

Kent hummed, kissed his lower lip.

With a small sound, Jack pulled back, moved his head to the side. ”Kenny, we can’t do this. Not this, not here - ”

Another kiss shut him up, for a long second where Kent’s hands found their way to his jaw once more and Jack’s tightened on his hips. Then, he pulled back again. ”Not here, Kenny. Please.”

Please. Like Jack had ever been one to say please. But he was right, however much Kent wanted him, wanted every part of what they’d been, there were important matters to discuss. Everyhing else could wait for later. Had to. For now.

”Okay.” Kent pulled back, ran a hand through his hair. ”Okay, no sex. We can do that.”

Something like relief flashed over Jack’s face, dropped along with his shoulders.

”Can we talk, at least?”

Silence stretched between them. Kent’s jaw twitched. After another moment, Jack nodded.

”Awesome. We haven’t done too much of that recently.”

No answer. Kent could almost hear Jack’s fists clenching behind him. Good. Maybe he’d start taking shit seriously, then.

The ’be better’ poster was still on his wall. Hopefully he was still trying to live by it.

”What’re ya majoring in?” Kent asked, knowing the answer full well before the words left his mouth. Jack’s bookcase was not far from his bed. Never had been.

”History.”

Kent nodded, folded his legs underneath him on the bed. On the bedside table was a biography on African-American women in the space race, a couple of sticky notes stuck between the pages, a donkey’s ear here and there. Jack never fucking changed.

”You’ll be writing your thesis soon, right?”

Another nod.

”What’s it on? World War 2?”

The faintest shadow of a smile flickered over Jack’s face. ”The role of women in the victory of the allied forces. I was gonna focus on the queer women in particular - “

Kent froze, nearly dropped the biography onto the floor.

“It’s pretty fascinating, but I know - “

“Jesus fucking Christ, Zimms, do ya have any idea how that’d look?”

Jack shrugged, took the book from Kent’s hands and put it firmly back on the table. ”It’s an interesting subject.”

Kent huffed. ”I bet it is, but it’s nothing something an NHL player needs to his name!” He leaned to the side, caught Jack’s eyes. ”You are going to the NHL, right?”

After a moment, _too fucking long_ , Jack nodded. ”If I can find the right team.”

”Where’re ya thinking?”

Jack’s eyes flickered to the side again, away from Kent. ”There are so many possibilities … I haven’t looked at everything yet. There’s so much to consider, and - ”

”You have no clue?”

Jack threw out his hands. ”I mean … it could be Montréal, it could be LA. Okay? I don’t know.”

Kent swallowed. ” … what about Las Vegas?”

Still no eye contact, he couldn’t even look him in the _fucking_ eyes - 

”I … I don’t know, okay?”

A scream was tearing its way up Kent’s throat, but he pushed it down, inhaled before once more clearing the short distance between them. The kiss wasn’t rough, not by any means, but it was enough to shut Jack up, to shut Kent up, too, to bring the conversation back to where it needed to go. To _them_ , to how their lips still fit like they had been forged to, like _they_ still fit like they’d been forged to. On and off the ice.

Jack pulled back. ”Parse - ”

If there was one thing Kent had learned, it was never to give up. And so he grabbed Jack by the cheeks, fitted their lips together again, fuelled everything he’d felt these past nine years into the kiss. The anger, the fear, the love - Jack had been his first, not his only, but he’d been his first, and Kent had been his, too. First fuck, first love, first no-look fucking one-timer, that had to count for something, and with the way Jack’s lips moved against his, hesitant at first, more fervent after a couple of seconds, it did. The hands on Kent’s hips tightened, all but held him in place, and he was more than ready to start throwing clothes on the floor, party downstairs be damned. He could fuck to Beyoncé if he needed to. As long as it was Jack, he could do fucking anything.

Until Jack pulled back again, looked away again, despite the hands still on Kent’s hips. ” - Kenny, I can’t do this.”

Kent bit down a sound, of anger or frustration or something he refused to name. ” … Jack, come on.”

”No, I - … uh.”

It was desperate, almost pathetically so, but a spark of pride shot through him at being able to shut Jack up with a well-placed kiss to his neck, just below his ear. They’d found that together during that one summer where everything was perfect, and Jack always relaxed under his touch, always stopped spewing whatever shit he’d gotten into his brain before - 

”KENNY!”

He’d never shoved him back, back then.

Never.

” - ZIMMS, just fucking stop thinking for once and listen to me. I’ll tell the GMs you’re on board and they can free up cap space. Then you can be _done_ with this shitty team. You and me - ”

”Get out.”

Two small words, spoken with more ice than Kent had ever heard in Jack’s voice. He had ice in his eyes and ice in his veins, had been cold and stiff all over, but Kent was fucking _fire_ , ready to burn and melt and make something entirely new. ” - Jack.”

If only he’d fucking _let him_.

”You can’t – ” Jack stumbled over his own tongue, the one that had just been in Kent’s mouth but that he now wanted to fucking _bite off_ ” – you don’t come to my fucking school unannounced - ”

”Because you shut me out - ”

” - and corner me in my room - ”

”I’m trying to help - ”

” - and expect me to do whatever you want - ”

”FUCK – JACK!!” This wasn’t what he fucking wanted. They were going to fix it, they were going to fix _everything_ \- ”What do you want me to say? That I miss you? I miss you, okay?” His voice didn’t break, but it was a near fucking thing, and Kent let his head fall back onto Jack’s shoulder. There were still hands around his waist, pushing him away more than holding him close. ”I miss you … ”

” … you always say that.”

Jack’s voice was soft, too fucking soft for whatever mess they had gotten themselves into, and a knife straight into Kent’s heart, twisting and turning until there was no more blood left to spill. As if there was any left in the first place, and for a long second, a breath and a heartbeat, he wasn’t even sure there had.

” … huh. Well, _shit_. Okay.”

But Kent knew how to wield a fucking knife, too. Whatever game Jack wanted to play, Kent would always be better.

”… you know what, Zimmermann? You think you’re too fucked up to care about? That you’re not good enough?” He smiled, devoid of even the slightest shadow of humour, devoid of anything but what was left of them. ”Everyone already knows what you are but it’s people like me who still care.”

” - shut up.”

Same buttons. However much he wanted to pretend, whatever fucking game he was trying to play, he hadn’t changed at all.

”You’re scared everyone else is going to find out you’re worthless, right?” Kent continued, finally standing up again. ”Oh, don’t worry, just give it a few seasons, Jack. Trust me.”

A sick twist of satisfactions at the way Jack flinched turned in Kent’s stomach, mixed with the want to kiss away the need for words, to run away, to take Jack with him and hold him and never fucking let go -

Supporting himself on the foot of the bed, Jack got up, too. ” … g-get out of my room.”

”Fine. Shut me out again.”

”And stay – stay away from my team.”

”Why?” Kent cocked an eyebrow, hand on the door handle. ”Afraid I’ll tell them something?”

”Leave, Parse!”

Something clattered to the floor outside, loud enough to make them both flinch, and Kent opened the door. Looked down at the boy from earlier fumbling for a key on the floor just outside, the one that had been eyeing Jack up like a pathetic lost puppy earlier, that fucking eavesdropping _fag_.

Kent cleared his throat. ”Hey. Well. Call me if you reconsider or whatever.” And he would. He had to. Placing the cap firmly back on his head, hoping it would cover at least a little of the mess Jack had made of it, Kent kept his voice steady. ”But good luck with the Falconers.” That ungrateful fucking son of a bitch. ” … I’m sure that’ll make your dad proud.”

Same buttons. He didn’t even have to turn, the sound of the door slamming was evidence enough.

A soft ’Jack’ rang through the air. Kent recognised the tone of voice.

He wasn’t eighteen anymore. And thank the ever-loving fuck for that.

He left the house with hands balled into fists and his shirt hastily shoved into his trousers. Dozens of eyes followed him on his way out, but they rolled off his back like any words of affection did Jack, never getting behind the thick walls he’d erected around himself.

If he shut the door a little too hard behind him, no one probably noticed through the hazes of alcohol and loud music inside. Kent didn’t turn to look if it stayed on its hinges, just went through the dead garden with his eyes firmly on the old Subaru still parked in front of the house opposite.

Motherfucking son of a _bitch_ , who the fuck did Jack think he was? Did he truly fucking think his Dad’s name could carry him into the league, that it would be enough to drown out the mess that had been his career since the draft, since he was stupid enough to down a bottle of fucking pills the night before their fucking dreams were supposed to come true, everything they’d worked so fucking hard for - 

The car door slammed, followed immediately by a bolt of pain shooting from Kent’s finger up his arm. Biting down a scream, he clutched it to his chest, bent over the wheel, breathed through the pain like he’d always fucking had to. When he pulled back, pain now an insistent pulse beneath his skin, his finger had already begun to swell.

”Fuck,” he whispered in the quiet of the car. ”Fuck! Fucking fuck, _shit_!” He slammed his hands against the wheel, regretted it immediately as another bolt of pain shot through his arm. Clutching the hand again, he screamed.

Next time he opened his eyes, stinging from tears he refused to shed, someone was walking towards the car. Kent didn’t wait to find out who, just sucked in a breath and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. At least they hadn’t fallen out during – 

He was halfway down the street before the person made it to the spot his car had once been in. No stupid questions, no fucking pictures.

The clock on the dashboard had long passed 3 AM. Going back to the hotel would be the best course of action, but going back meant having to get a medic to look at his finger, and that would mean blowing his cover. There was probably a hospital nearby, it was a college town after all, but his name would be on the front page of TMZ before he made it out of there, his face, too, a grainy cell phone photo taken by some broke college student also in the ER.

He couldn’t risk that.

So he drove.

Boston was beautiful at night. Nothing like the fucking Mardi Gras that had been the EpiKegster, nothing like the absolute chaos that was Las Vegas, but beautiful in its own right, at least from the window of an old, unwashed Subaru driving five miles beneath the speed limit. Being pulled over was the last thing he needed, especially after the amount of alcohol he’d had. The stench that was going to be impossible to get out of his clothes.

He should just burn it all. Could afford to, now.

It was a comforting thought. Burning it all. It probably wouldn’t be difficult to get the old frat house to burn, as badly built and worn as it was. The house in Rimouski Jack had overdosed in, too, he could douse it in gasoline, throw a match, get the fuck out of there. Even the old rink building, the one where he’d won the Memorial Cup and lost his fucking virginity, given it away without a second thought. It would probably look beautiful lit up in the dark.

When he finally pulled up to the hotel, hours or minutes or days later, his finger was still throbbing, a dull kind of pain that set his entire body on edge.

Pain and alcohol was an odd mix. One dulled and slurred, the other grounded and kept you focused.

Kent wanted another drink.

The right thing to do would be to go to the medic right away, get it over with. Make sure whatever injury he might have gotten didn’t get worse.

On the other hand, he reeked of booze. If he didn’t want to end up in the third degree, he was going to need a shower before getting within five feet of another human being. It would be odd, but they wouldn’t be able to prove _shit_.

The stairs were deserted, as was the hallway. Kent made it as far as into the hotel room before his luck ran out. If he’d had any at all that night.

But honestly, fuck Swoops for placing a fucking umbrella against the wall, and fuck the fucking umbrella for landing on his fucking foot - 

”Who’s there?”

Kent ducked into the bathroom, slammed the door shut. Outside, a lamp clicked on and bare feet padded around the room. ”That you in there, Parse?”

There was no keeping quiet. Too fucking late for that. ”Yes.”

”Everything okay?”

”Just go back to sleep.”

”Did you have an … wait, why does it smell like beer in here?” Kent swore under his breath. ”Have you been drinking?”

”Just go the fuck to sleep!”

”I’m getting Burke.”

”No!” Kent bit his tongue. If anyone else woke up, heads would be rolling. His, more like. ”I’ve got it covered, alright? Just go the fuck to sleep!”

Swoops sighed, took a step back from the door ”For your own sake, I hope you’re right about that.”

Kent turned on the water, bit down another swear as it hit his back, scalding hot and anything but cleansing.

*

”That’s broken, alright,” the medic said, turned Kent’s finger in his hands again. At this point, Kent was fairly sure he did it only to make him wince in pain. ”Look like you slammed it in a door. Bathroom trip gone wrong?”

Kent grit his teeth. “Yes.”

The medic hummed. ”You’re lucky the tip didn’t come clean off. I’ve seen guys like that, regular guys, too, clumsy guys. It ain’t pretty, I can tell ya that. Some can be sewn back on, but others are lost forever. A damn shame.”

”When can I play again?” Kent asked.

”Not until after New Year’s,” the medic said without missing a beat. ”If y’don’t strain it at all until then.”

”So no games.”

”Not even practices,” the medic confirmed. ”Good luck telling your coach.”

Kent closed his eyes.

”New Year’s?!” Burke yelled, voice filling out the entirety of his hotel room.

Kent massaged the root of his nose with his good hand. ”’s what the medic said.”

With a loud sigh, almost theatrical, but Kent was on thin fucking ice as it was, Burke leaned back in his chair. ”Jesus fucking Christ.”

”I told you I’m sorry,” Kent bit out. He’d had two hours of sleep, and cheap beer wasn’t agreeing with his body the way it had when he was a teenager. As it was, he’d kill for a cup of coffee and an aspirin. Or just a fucking break.

Burke barked out a laugh. ”You fucked up, Parson, you realise that, right? You fucked up so fucking bad it’s making Suárez’ slip-up last year look like a fucking kid’s quarrel.” 

Punching the screen of an old brick-like Samsung, he slid it over the table.

Kent’s blood froze.

There he was, in turquoise-blue shutter shades with his arm around an equally stone-faced woman in matching shades.

Burke swiped. A man with a green cap had his arm around Kent whose face was hidden by an excited guy’s hand.

Another swipe. Kent throwing a ping pong ball into a solo cup, a crowd of college kids cheering around him.

Another swipe. Jack was in this photo, looking as pale and lifeless as he had when Kent had found him five and a half years before. Kent, on the other hand, looked as confident and calm as could be.

”Lovely thing to wake up to,” Burke said. ”Just the thing I needed. The captain of my team getting drunk at a college party during a fucking roadie. Marina’s gonna have a field day.”

Kent closed his eyes, headache throbbing in time with his finger.

”If you weren’t out ’cause of that finger of yours – and how you broke it, I do _not_ want to know – I can assure you, this would do it. As it is, we’ll have to figure out some other punishment. Taking away your C would be appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

Kent’s eyes snapped open.

”What you did is in no way befitting of a captain. You know that. An unintegrated rookie perhaps, but not the fucking captain of a fucking NHL team. Not a _Stanley Cup Champion_.”

”You can’t do that,” Kent said, forced his voice to come out calm. ”You don’t decide that shit.”

Burke sighed. ”You’re right. Unfortunately. But I’d like you to know, if I could, that’s what would happen.” His eyes bore into Kent’s, ”You understand what I’m saying?”

Swallowing, or trying to, Kent nodded. Kept his hands clenched beneath the table where Burke couldn’t see them.

”Now get the fuck out.”

One mistake. It had been one huge, fucking mistake, but he was the fucking captain.

They would have let him on. If Kent had succeeded, if Jack hadn’t been so fucking stubborn and fucking _stupid_ , he’d have had to fight, sure, but in the end, Jack would have joined the Aces. And they would’ve loved him. They would’ve loved them both.

”And Parson?”

One hand on the door handle, Kent turned, bit down the snarl working its up his throat.

”Next time you wanna act like – next time you wanna be a desperate fucking faggot, do it in the fucking off-season. You’re a good player, but you’re not irreplaceable. Don’t ever forget that.”

The door slammed.

Somehow, he kept the scream inside until he made it to the hotel room. Despite the pillow, Swoops still stuck his head out of the bathroom, still asked if he was okay.

Like a fucking tool. They all fucking were, fucking tools that didn’t understand _shit_ and never fucking would. He’d given the Aces everything he had, every single inch of himself and more, his entire fucking _soul_ , everything but the piece that belonged to Jack.

And this was how they repaid him.

How Jack repaid him.

The point-streak was broken by default. Thirty-one games and one mistake, one huge fucking mistake, but done it was. Kent didn’t watch the game, didn’t answer his teammates’ questions, didn’t pick up his phone, just stayed in bed until it was time to go again. For a long moment, he pondered leaving the suit in his suitcase, breaking another rule, but Burke might kill him if he did that. Or worse, actually get his C taken away. Or out him.

It could’ve just been something he’d said.

Kent wasn’t that fucking stupid.

PR knew anyway, and even if there were some Marina hadn’t told, she couldn’t have kept it all to herself. Even if she’d been fucking that slip of a woman flying across stages all over the world like a beautiful butterfly. It was out of his control and always fucking had been.

Another scream was strangled in a pillow, in a bottle of scotch.

He was Kent fucking Parson. He was the captain of the Las Vegas Aces. He’d survived his first year there, had taken every shift they’d thrown at him, the C and everything it meant, and emerged victorious. Two Stanley Cups, an amount of broken records rivalling the giants of the eighties, more trophies than could properly fit on the shelf he’d set up in his bedroom after the first three.

And none of it would matter. If – when it came down to it, he would be nothing more than a faggot. A pathetic one, too, that couldn’t get over his fucking - that couldn’t move the fuck on. Walk away. Figure out who the hell he was without him.

He was Kent fucking Parson.

Somehow, it rang more and more hollow every time he said it.

Perhaps he should just kill himself. Or retire. Get it over with.

Except he wasn’t that fucking pathetic, he wasn’t that fucking _gay_. Vegas wasn’t a bad place to live, and it wasn’t a bad place to die, but it wasn’t a place to stop and think, either. Not without being stepped over and on and trodden into the sand until the city itself swallowed your still-breathing corpse and turned it into neon lights and poker chips.

Vegas was a stepping stone. One day, you moved on, found something better, settled down.

Something Kent apparently didn’t know how to do. Perhaps that’s why he’d stayed for so long. Why he didn’t want to leave.

What did he know? When all was said and done, cut to the bone, all unnecessary parts and smirks and facades melted off, what did he know?

Apart from hockey.

Because that was it, wasn’t it? He had hockey, and hockey had him, had lodged itself in his heart and his throat and carved itself into his bones. Refused to let him go.

And by God, he wanted to hold on right back.

Perhaps he had confused the two with each other, hockey and Jack, forged them together with nails that were now rusty and bent, with knots that were coming undone and he no longer remembered how to tie. Perhaps it had all been in his head.

He loved hockey.

He loved Jack.

He needed someone to love him the fuck back.

-/ \\-

”You can come out now. It’s safe, I promise. I know it probably looks scary and shit, but I promise ya, it’s just new.” Kent tried to smile. ”New things can be scary, though, you’ve got a point there. And it’s good to be careful, you’ll get hurt less that way. But y’gotta come outta there eventually.”

Nothing.

With a sigh, Kent laid down fully on his stomach, peered into the carrier on the floor. The cat was barely visible inside of it, dark fur blending in almost perfectly with the shadows. Only her eyes were visible, wide and green and staring directly at him.

”I’ve got tuna out here,” Kent tried. ”How ’bout I go get some?”

It was from a can, but better than nothing. Cats probably couldn’t taste the difference, anyway, especially not if they were served in such a cool food bowl he’d bought, shiny and scratch-less. The lady at the pet store had warned him it probably wouldn’t remain that way for long. He should’ve gotten a calico if he wanted things to stay pretty. Or just a cat with less temper than the fluffy Maine Coon that had stared at him for a total of three seconds before starting to purr like a fucking engine.

Kent had lost his heart swifter than when Jack first took off his shirt in the dressing room in Rimouski they’d fucked in. It was almost pathetic, but he’d reached pathetic two weeks ago. Or when he’d bought that vibrator while drunk during the summer. Not a bad purchase. Just pathetic.

Placing the bowl gently on the floor, Kent peered into the brand new carrier again. The green eyes of the cat – _his_ cat – stared back.

”Still staying in there? I’m not judging ya or anything, but y’look kind of uncomfortable, so how about doing yourself a favour and come out? I’d do it if I could.”

He chuckled. The cat continued staring. Didn’t even blink.

”You’re right, that was a really bad joke. It’s a lot more fun out here, though. I got you this weird tree-scratch-thing? Fucking expensive, too, so it has to be, like, some serious fun. You’re the better judge of that I think. So how ’bout giving it a try?”

Nothing.

”Okay, I’m just gonna leave your food here - ” He pushed the bowl slightly to the left to make sure the cat had really seen it. ” - and go into the bedroom. You can just come out whenever y’feel like it. I promise I won’t watch ya eat.”

After a couple more seconds looking into the carrier, he rose, made true of his promise. Throwing himself on the bed - his incredibly soft bed that had cost a fucking fortune, but what was he supposed to use his NHL pay checks on anyway? - he pulled out his phone.

01.17 PM. To ’Jack’

_~~i adopted a cat~~ _

01.19 PM. To ’Ma’

_i adopted a cat_

_[image: a mess of fluff and wild eyes peering out a cat carrier that would soon be too small]_

_shes a maine coon_

_shes rly fucking pretty_

_do u have to name a cat immedaitely for u to bond? or doesnt it matter_

_ill figure it out_

_just wanted to let u know youre a grandma now_

She was probably at work. Probably wouldn’t appreciate the joke, either, but that was on her.

The strip club on the other side of the street were taking down their Christmas decorations. Kent still couldn’t fathom why strip clubs needed those in the first place. On the outside of the building, at least. On the inside … they probably had a lot of fun with decorations inside.

In the living room, the cat hadn’t moved from her carrier, but she was staring firmly at the food bowl a foot from it. Kent counted it as progress.

It took almost a week before the carrier was fully abandoned, a couple of days after Kent returned from a half-hearted New Year’s party he’d wanted to skip more than anything and come home to ruined curtains and a pillow that was never going to be the same again. Worth it, though, as she hissed at him from her spot by the bowl and he waited for a full hour before making a sandwich.

Where she was instead was a mystery, one Kent was getting more and more sick of he begun training again and came home with exhaustion spreading its way to his entire body.

The living room was completely empty, save for a hair ball under a couch. Sighing, Kent moved on to the master bedroom. No cat. Barely even any cat hair.

After almost fifteen minutes, two of which on the floor in his closet looking up at the ceiling, he found her in the guest bedroom, huddled in the far corner under the bed, licking her paw. As if she wasn’t covered in dust.

With a groan, Kent lowered himself onto the floor to coo at her and received an unimpressed look in return. No pretty words, then. After a long moment, he rose, came back with her food bowl. Placing it gently on the floor in front of the bed, he sat himself down on the undisturbed covers and waited. It took a few minutes, but eventually she drew out, startled slightly as she noticed him but continued to the bowl.

”Glad to see y’like the food,” Kent whispered. The cat’s ears flickered. It should probably feel silly, talking to a cat. If he wanted to talk, he could call his Ma. The cat wasn’t saying anything back.

”I really need to find a name for ya, don’t I?”

She ignored him.

”Jack? Jackie?”

It could have been a sneeze – did cats sneeze? Or huff?

”Guess not.” Kent almost laughed. ”Wouldn’t wantcha overdosing on tuna or something. And I’m not callin’ ya Alexandra, either. Probably bad luck, that.”

With a meow, the cat leaped, landed just a feet from Kent on the bedspread. Whatever words had been lying in wait in his throat caught, and he watched with wide eyes as she took a turn around herself before settling down. Carefully, he lifted his hand to her nose, smiled ever so slightly at the short, wet sniff she gave back, then equally as carefully moved to her back, touched her fur. When she still didn’t stir, he tried petting her.

”See, told you I’m not so bad. And don’t ya come scratching me now, I don’t deserve that.” He grinned. ”How do ya like Stephanie?”

The cat sent him a look of pure disgust.

”You’re right, _fuck_ no. How about Britney? Everyone likes Britney.”

No reply. Of course not, she was a fucking cat.

”Katy? Like cat-y, get it?”

She yawned, touched the edge of her nose to his hand. Without thinking, he booped it. For a breath, they both froze. Then, she relaxed, and he exhaled.

”Kitty? I mean, you are a kitten. Can’t deny that one. Or Kit?”

A meow. She didn’t meow much. How much did cats need to meow? Was it like talking, did some just like it more than others? Or was it some sort of tell on how well they were doing?

That would be fucking weird.

”Yeah, I like Kit, too.”

With another soft sound, she turned to her back. Obediently, he rubbed her belly. Grinned. ”Fuck, Kit, that purring’s fucking obscene. You’re a purrer, you are. Or purrser. Like Parser, get it? ’course you don’t, you’re a fucking cat. Kit the Purrser. Purrs. You like Purrs?” He scratched her belly even more, moved to rest on his elbow for better leverage. The purring raised in volume. ”I’m taking that as a yes. Kit Purrs.” He paused. ”Oh my god.”

An unhappy meow tore slightly at his heart as he pulled away, but she was going to have to be patient a moment. Being careful not to disturb her too much, he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

[parse] say hi to kit ‘purrs’ purrson

[parser] shes better than all of u moherfuckers

Grinning, he put the phone down again, went back to rubbing her belly. The purring started back up, like a fucking sports car roaring to life. Next to them, the phone pinged. Again. And again.

[swoops] For fuck’s sake, Parser

[swoops] First time you write anything in the fucking group chat and it’s about your fucking cat???

[swoops] When did you even get her?

[bubbles] shes adorable!!

[scrappy] Just how big is she?

[smitty] Is your hand really tiny ro somehinth?

[parse] shes the fucking best

[parse] shes a maine coon so pretty big

[parse] still a kitten tho

[parse] and my hands arent tiny fuck u

[pops] very pretty

[pops] a queen

[parse] THANK YUO

Purrs still hadn’t stopped purring. Kit ’Purrs’ Purrson.

Kent grinned.

-/ \\-

Eleven days after bringing Purrs home, nine days after she had decided his apartment was safe enough to be in as long as she stayed in the living room and as far away from the washing machine as cat-ly possibly, Kent returned to the Las Vegas Aces to the news that three of the guy had gone down with the mumps. All mild cases according to the team medics, but Kent couldn’t blame management for not taking any risks. Mumps was a nasty business to have in a dressing room.

They’d have their comeback, eventually, but Kent had to prove himself first. A home game against the Sharks was scheduled for that night, their unofficial rivals, probably chosen real fucking carefully for Kent’s return. Win them back at home first, then go conquer the world. Prove you still deserve to be there.

And that, he knew how to do.

”Oh, thank God,” Bubbles said as soon as he entered the dressing room. ”Swoops is a shit fucking captain.”

”Hey!”

”Oh, come on, you know you’re - ”

”Get dressed,” Kent interrupted, pulling off his shirt with his back to the rest of the guys. Just in case. ”I’m intending to win tonight, and you fuckers better help, so I don’t wanna see a single one of ya late for warm-ups.”

Silence. Stunned or offended, Kent couldn’t tell, didn’t care. Either way, they’d get over it.

As always, his gear came on as a protective layer, stripped everything away but the Kent that was on fucking fire, the one with the thirty-one game point streak. The one that wasn’t a pathetic fucking fag with a finger that still ached when he turned his stick the wrong way.

He’d have to be careful doing practice. During the game, too. If they lost by something as stupid as a broken finger - 

They couldn’t afford to lose. Kent couldn’t afford to lose.

*

”Troy, what would you say was the reason behind the Aces’ loss tonight?”

Inevitability, clear from the first fucking face-off that led the Sharks to a shot at the goal within thirty seconds. The Aces defence hadn’t stood a fucking chance.

”Well, we weren’t as consistent as we needed to be. And the Sharks have really gotten over their teamwork issue from earlier in the season, gotta commend them for that.”

”Are the Aces suffering from any issues with teamwork?”

No strategies, no continuity, a bunch of individual players thrown together on a team that somehow made it work. That was the Las Vegas Aces. Unpredictable. Greatest strength, greatest weakness. Not that anyone would ever tell a vulture that.

”Definitely not. We’re a tight team, but sometimes things just work out better than others.”

”You seemed almost uncoordinated tonight.”

There had been passes, more than Kent bothered to count, half a success, half thwarted by players in white and blue, then, poof, gone. Already too close to the goal. And nothing they could do.

”I’m sorry, was there a question in that?”

”Parson, how do you feel coming back from your injury to a loss? Are you feeling at all nervous for the next game?”

Five minutes, that was all it took for the Sharks. Five minutes and a fight lasting from centre ice to five feet from Pops where the fucker had finally passed to a teammate who’d one-timed the puck over Pops’ shoulder. Kent hadn’t even seen him.

”Of course I wish we could’ve won tonight, but as Swoops said, the Sharks were just playing better. We’ll get ’em next time, and we’ll start with the Oilers in a couple of days.”

”Do you think your injury had any influence on the outcome of tonight’s game?”

Usually, Kent was the centre of the game, and the Aces worked around him, kept away checks, made sure he got the puck. And they did it well. But not tonight. Tonight, he found himself no longer the eye of the hurricane that was the Las Vegas Aces but whirled along the edges of it, stealing pucks whenever the chance presented itself and losing it moments later when a Shark felt like it. Nothing like himself. Nothing like Kent fucking Parson.

”I’m fortunate to play on a team with a lotta great, talented guys. If my injury – which is all healed, by the way – was gonna be an issue, the coaches wouldn’t’ve taken the chance. Someone else would’ve come out and done his best. So to answer your question, no. My injury meant nothing.”

The journalist nodded, adjusted his hold on the mic. There was no more time, not with Marina glaring at them all and subtly motioning to the watch in her wrist. It was a fucking miracle she’d put him in front of the vultures as it was, but perhaps that was her revenge, the _bitch_.

”We’ll get ’em next time, boys,” Swoops said as soon as the door closed behind the last vulture.

The A over New Year’s, Suárez’ replacement if no one asked, Kent’s for seventeen days.

”Shut the fuck up, Troy.”

And he did. It wasn’t like there was anything else to say, apart from the constant flow of Russian swears from Pops in the corner, under his breath while there were still mics, the loudest noise in the room as soon as they were gone. That had hadn’t yet passed out was the only miracle of the night.

If anything more was said, Kent didn’t hear it, not from the showers where he was staring at the water rolling down the tiles in front of him, wondering, if he stayed long enough, if his entire body would disintegrate and disappear between the tiles. Be swallowed up by the rink never to reappear.

He turned off the water. It was one loss. He wasn’t going to be a dramatic bitch over one fucking loss.

He wasn’t that fucking gay.

-/ \\-

All-Stars came and went like the joke that it was, laughter on television screens and during fantasy drafts and posing with mascots. Too much seriousness during competitions, played off but there, unbroken records and retired players laughing with rising stars and vultures that had never stepped foot on the ice. Malcolm and Antagnozza and Sorensen, some on his team again, fluid and familiar, others across the face-off circle, checks to the boards and slaps on the back. Old grins and beer and laughter. Memories.

And Bad Bob Zimmermann, commentating everything in perfect Québecois and perfect hockey speak, greyer and softer and with more laughter lines than Kent remembered.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at each other. Didn’t exist.

The win did, 5-4, and Kent’s shoulders fell with the puck.

He still could. Of course he still could.

Even if none of the goals had been his. One assist, that was all.

But no curse. Curses were fucking ridiculous anyway.

He’d be alright.

Even if the losses returned as soon as he did.

Coming up was the goal, moments before empty, now with a couple too many Rangers for comfort. Still, Kent skated on, kicked the heel of his blade into the ice to swerve past one advancing Ranger, let the puck out of his grasp for a fraction of a second before regaining control and moving once more towards the goal.

The D-men were going to be a bitch. Had Kent been a fighter, he would’ve gone in swinging, but he wasn’t. Never had been, never would be. Instead, he passed the puck to the side, just close enough to the goal that the Rangers moved to block him, and only him. Just in time for Bubbles to slide up from another side, take the shot as soon as Kent was out of the way.

With an agility Kent had only ever seen in goalies and figure skaters, the Ranger between the pipes dropped down in a split, bounced the puck off his shin pads and back onto the ice.

The D-men went without hesitance, as did Kent. A flurry of sticks smashed together, again and again until the puck was finally gone, already halfway across the ice before Kent had the time to turn and run after it. Already, a couple Rangers were zooming in, too fast, everything went too fucking fast, with too much fucking precision and none of it belonging to the Aces.

Alone in the net, Pops dropped down.

In the Rangers’ defensive zone, Kent ran.

Too late.

A Ranger lifted his stick, a swear tore its way up Kent’s throat but died as a body slammed into the Ranger, black and gold, sent them both sprawling onto the ice only a couple of feet from Kent. Skating a half-circle around the puck for momentum, he was gone before the Ranger could be back on his feet. Carly, too, but Carly wasn’t important. Carly wasn’t a threat, Carly would be fine.

And Kent would, too, as soon as the fucking puck had gotten into the fucking goal.

Centre ice. Centre fucking ice, and the puck was snatched right from his fucking stick, shot back towards Pops, too fucking close, _way_ too fucking close, but Kent followed, and Bubbles was there, and once more sticks hit sticks with sounds that seemed to echo throughout the entire rink. Between the pipes, too _fucking_ close, Pops was watching them intently, and Kent hoped he could tell which stick in the pile belonged to which team, because he definitely fucking couldn’t.

Eventually, suddenly, a stuck would be lifted too high, high enough for someone to take a shot, and Kent would be that shot, always was the fucking shot, there would be an Aces waiting somewhere, waiting to go to the goal, and Kent could follow, would be faster than any fucking Ranger, get there when it was still just the goalie, shoot - 

A lift. A fraction of a second but enough. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, spots of black and blue blurring together at the edge of his vision, Kent hit the puck.

It would’ve been a good shot. Enough even, had it not been for another stick, belonging to whom, Kent couldn’t tell, couldn’t even fucking tell later when reviewing the tape, some _fucking_ stick hitting his.

The puck still flew.

Pops never saw it coming.

Above them, the horn blew, mixed in with the roar of blue around him.

2-4. Third period.

Black and gold. ”Parse - ”

”Don’t fucking touch me.”

On the bench, someone handed him a bottle of water. He didn’t take it.

*

”You gotta be fucking kidding me!”

Something flashed over the ref’s face, and Kent knew he should quit, should back off and take the penalty like the fucking captain that he was, but it was fucking ridiculous, he hadn’t been fucking _icing_ , why wouldn’t they just look at the _fucking_ tapes, the puck had clearly crossed the fucking - 

”Parson, one more fucking word and you’re getting more than a minor! Now get in the fucking box!”

”Some of us wanna play!”

Kent turned, hands already in fists, but the Predator just grinned. Six and a half feet tall, could break Kent in two with a check, and they both knew it.

For a long second, Kent didn’t care.

”Parson.”

He didn’t spit on the ice. Nothing stupid like that. A few moments later in the box, with the adrenaline wearing off and only anger left, he kind of wished he had. Or spat in the ref’s fucking face. That would’ve been fucking something.

Bjørnholt met him after the game, a quick fuck in a nondescript hotel room, and Kent washed down the taste of latex and sweat with scotch and cat fur. Cheap beer.

*

Only when safely home in his apartment did Kent break.

Except he didn’t break, he was Kent fucking Parson, he didn’t fucking _break_ , he just … yelled. Kicked over his bag. Punched his fist into the granite of his counter, regretted it moments later, yelled again, slid down on the floor. Purrs was in the bedroom. She couldn’t hear him.

Sitting down, he was still shaking. He wouldn’t cry. He was Kent _fucking_ Parson, he didn’t cry, not for something like this. He didn’t cry at all.

The goalie had laughed.

A Dallas Star goalie, two goals down in a game they wouldn’t be winning because never _once_ had the Dallas Stars won against the Las Vegas Aces, not fucking _once_ , and still the man had laughed.

And Kent couldn’t fucking blame him.

Let them laugh, lead them on, middle school tactics, no mercy for skinny, freckled gay boys with braces unless they proved their right to exist. And Kent made people laugh. Made a fucking fool out of himself for the amusement of others, kind of liked it sometimes, didn’t come home with bruises like so many of the other skinny, freckled, braces-wearing _faggots_.

Laughter meant safety, but this one hadn’t. And Kent couldn’t fucking blame him.

The clock above his kitchen read 6 PM, and there would be vultures talking. Barry and Leonard, purple suits and bad jokes and surprises and disappointments, and perhaps Jack Zimmermann would’ve been a better first pick, despite five and a half years of proof otherwise. Samwell U was going to the Frozen Four. And he was going to sign soon. And it wouldn’t be with the Las Vegas Aces, because the Las Vegas Aces _sucked_ , and their captain - 

Kent had never been too fond of Greek classics. They’d read some in middle school, the fancy of a young, enthusiastic teacher who hadn’t yet learned to recognise the countenance of reality, and he shouldn’t have teased the poor fucker as much as he had, but the stories had been old and boring. Everyone thought so. He’d never been scared of them, he wasn’t a fucking chicken, but he hadn’t liked them, either. One bit. But that was years ago, and he’d forgotten most of them. King Midas, the witch Circe, Zeus and Hades and Achilles and Patroclus.

But he’d never forgotten king Minos and everything to do with him. The curse of Poseidon on Pasiphaë, her son the Minotaur. And the part he had hated the most, Daedalus and Icarus. An old man, only doing his job, being locked in a maze had sounded wrong even to a child’s ear. And so he had cheered when the wings were done and father and son could fly away from their prison. He had held his breath as Icarus soared above the sea, flew closer and closer to the sun above, unable to resist its warmth and drunk on his own sudden power. And he had felt his heart skip a beat as Icarus’ wings melted and he fell to the sea. That night, he had dreamt of falling, for miles and miles and hours and hours, knowing he would hit the sea at any moment but unable to see or hear anything that would tell him when. He’d woken up with a scream stuck in his throat and swallowed it down before it could wake his Ma.

He wasn’t a fucking chicken.

He’d never claimed to be anything but human.

-/ \\-

The moment between sleep and wakefulness was brief, a heartbeat of confusion, another before the wakefulness turned to adrenaline-induced panic, and his arms flew up to remove whatever was blocking his windpipe. Something soft and warm met his hands, something that immediately let out a loud hiss and made a sharp pain erupt in his forearm before lifting itself off his chest and throat. He gasped, forced oxygen back into his lungs, let out a startled cry with the same breath as adrenaline made way for pain.

Clutching his arm with one hand, Kent sat up in bed, blinked in the darkness, heart still racing. In the corner of the room, with her back arched and fur and tail sticking up, Kit Purrson was watching him with wide eyes. In the neon lights shining through the curtains, she looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.

”The fuck’d you do that for?” Kent hissed, throat still aching along with his wrist, warm and sticky underneath his hand. Just what he fucking needed.

Purrs stayed in the corner. Didn’t even blink.

With a groan, Kent got out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, all but slammed the door after him. On his forearm were four long, angry lines, brought out even clearer against his almost sickly-looking skin by the overhead light – and he needed to change it, he knew that, it had been almost five years, but it wasn’t like anyone else saw it.

An inch or two higher and she’d have gotten his arteries.

If there was one place Kent wasn’t going to die, it was a fucking bathroom.

There were bandages in his medicine cabinet, and he pulled them out, rolled them on as tight as he could with a hand he’d stopped training when he was eleven. Good enough.

Returning to bed was almost futile, he needed to be up in a couple of hours anyway, the brandy from the night before wasn’t kicking in anymore. And so, with a clean-shaved face and new water and food for Purrs, the _bitch_ , Kent pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie and left.

He could get coffee on the way. Take a nap during lunch. Not stay until midnight again for a few days.

*

As soon as Kent pulled off his underarmour in the dressing room, all but dead on his feet, someone inhaled. Swoops. Bubbles. The ghost of Lord Frederick Arthur Stanley himself for all Kent cared.

”Holy shit, Parse, what happened?”

Kent shrugged, pulled off his pants as well. ”Purrs happened. She’s still getting used to me, I guess. I think I accidentally scared her or something.”

”Well, thank the Lord.” Carly grinned. ”Thought you were going down Zimmermann’s kinda road or something.”

How someone could be nauseous without having eaten anything but an apple since the day before, Kent didn’t know. ”Just Purrs.”

There were more questions, or perhaps there weren’t. Whatever there was, or wasn’t, Kent didn’t slam the door behind him, but he was on the ice before anyone else made it out. A puck in the net, another on the right pipe. Exactly where he wanted it to go, he could tell himself, and it wouldn’t make it any more true.

His wrist hurt. He could blame the shot on that, too, except there was no use. The king of lies, but he’d never lied to himself. Just everyone else.

The rest of practice followed as it began, a puck inches off its supposed target, a check he didn’t see coming, pucks stolen and passed and lost and scored with.

And Kent’s wrist kept hurting.

Between the pipes, Aidy went down, and Greenberg shouldered past Smitty. Too rash, too rough, but that was Greenberg, infuriating and unpredictable, and the puck hit Aidy’s glove, hit the ice, swirled along with Swoops and was passed to Bubbles. Kent skated forward, stick at the ready, but the puck was passed on again before he could get to it, to Carly’s waiting stick, lost in a hip-check and a quick feint. Evie and Tady, Lutz just behind them, back and forth and onto Kent’s stick for the briefest of moments. Back to Tady. Lutz. Evie. Tady.

In front of Aidy, Smitty and Burlap were drawing in, ready for an attack they knew would come, and neither eyes were on Kent. Not with the teamwork going on ahead, and Kent kept behind it, lurked, waited for an opportunity to step forward and conquer and score.

Or maybe not. It hadn’t worked in months.

Lutz was lost to Smitty, something that would become a fight had they been on separate teams and in a game, not a scrimmage, and Evie had seconds, Evie and Tady and Greenberg. And Kent, but Kent stayed back. For now.

Kid needed the training anyway.

Aidy threw himself down again, intercepted another puck – a quick move, rushed, not enough precision, he could do – and Burlap threw himself in the way of another attack, a gentle check, Evie stumbling, and that was when Tady should’ve shot. A second’s unawareness, a perfect distraction, and Aidy’s eyes returned to him. Blocked the shot.

“The fuck was that?”

Tady glanced towards Lutz, but there was no help to find. Not that he deserved it, not that he _needed_ it, the -

”We’re in the fucking NHL! Haven’t you all worked your fucking asses off to get here?” He mumbled something, and Kent huffed. “Then what’s gotten ya so lazy now?”

Again, no answer, more mumbling, and Kent wanted to put his hands around the fucker’s neck, tighten, strangle the fucker to fucking -

”That’s enough, Parson. Back to practice, all of you. Save your quarrels for later.”

Kent bit down on his mouth guard, kept skating. Doctor Bazrafkhan would frown.

Doctor Bazrafkhan could go fuck himself, right along with the Aces and every single person involved with the NHL. Right along with Jack _fucking_ Zimmermann and his _fucking_ excuse of a team.

Frozen Four, Kent’s fucking _ass_.

The puck flew across the ice, flew between players that wasn’t Kent, over and over and over.

It was that motherfucker’s fault, all of it, _everything_. If he hadn’t OD’ed like a fucking coward, Kent wouldn’t have ended up on the Aces, he wouldn’t have been the golden rookie, he wouldn’t have been captain. Not then. Not yet.

Someone took a shot, too early, too impatient, and it bounced off Pops’ glove with ease and back onto the ice.

If he’d kept playing like he was meant to, everything would’ve been alright. If he hadn’t been so fucking selfish.

A stick went faster than the others’, once Kent’s, now Evie’s. Wrap it up, swirl it ’round, send it right the fuck back in. Goalie never fucking knew how to look.

He’d loved Jack, carved him into his bones right alongside hockey, worshipped and cared for and lied for him. He’d given him his all and received nothing in turn, because Jack had never - 

And then Evie was there, smiling all wide, eyes glinting, all directed at Kent like the fucking sun, like Kent was someone to impress, to adore - ”Parse, did you see that? I - ”

”Leave me the fuck alone!”

Too loud. All but a fucking scream. For a moment, Kent waited for regret. Anything.

”I don’t have the time to look at every-fucking-thing you do, alright? You’re a fucking NHL player, y’shouldn’t need everyone’s approval of every little fucking thing y’do!”

The smile on Evans’ face had faded. A kicked fucking puppy, and Kent wanted to thrown him in a burlap sack and drown him in a river. A melted ice rink.

He had always preferred cats. ”So grow the hell up, wouldja? Quit acting like a fucking kid.”

”Parse - ”

An arm on his, and Kent pushed it away. Practice was over anyway. And even if it wasn’t, his knee was acting up. Or his finger. Just fucking _anything_.

He could come back later.

“Parse.”

Kent kept walking, made it as far as the dressing room before Swoops caught up. ”Parse, that wasn’t fair. He – ”

”I don’t care. Okay?” Kent took off his helmet and, after a second of thought, threw it onto the ground. The sound echoed off the walls as it rolled a couple of feet before coming to a halt, and Kent exhaled the satisfaction. Useless, now. Good fucking thing he could buy how ever many helmets he fucking wanted.

”Parse – Kent, you’re the fucking captain, you can’t just - ”

”I told you I don’t fucking care!” The jersey hit the ground as well, another beautiful sound, and Kent sat down on the bench, tugged at his laces. If one of them broke, he was going to break his fucking stick, too. Might as fucking well.

”I don’t care if you don’t care!”

Kent’s hands stilled.

”You’re the fucking captain,” Swoops repeated, voice slightly more controlled. ”You’re the guy Evans needs to be able to go to, not the one that’ll put him down in front of everyone!”

He had a point. ”Maybe I shouldn’t have been named fucking captain, then,” Kent said, pulled off his skates. Didn’t thrown them.

”Maybe you shouldn’t,” Swoops agreed. ”But you are, and you’ve been doing a pretty good job so far. When you aren’t breaking curfew and taking your shit out on rookies.”

”I don’t have any shit.”

”Fuck you don’t. We’ve all got stuff that bothers us, but the rookies need patience, even if you don’t feel like you have any. Being in the NHL’s fucking difficult.”

Kent almost laughed. Or punched him. Or cried, except he didn’t. ”Y’don’t have to fucking tell me.”

Swoops ignored him. ”And you can’t blame him for idolising you, either. You’re the best player in the league – and don’t pull that shit with tied, we both know that’s bullshit, I see you play every fucking day and I still can’t believe it sometimes. Even if you’re in a slump.”

”I’m not in a slump.”

”Of course not. But even if you are. Give the kid a break. And if you’ve got some shit … fucking talk to someone. Don’t take it onto the fucking ice, I know you’re more professional than that.”

The underarmour hit the ground. ”I’m not talking to a fucking shrink, if that’s what you’re - ”

”I’m not saying that. Just talk to someone. If it’s about Zimmermann - ”

”Jack has nothing to do with this!”

Too loud. Again.

Deep breath. ”I haven’t played with Zimms in years. My playing has nothing to do with him.”

”Of course it doesn’t. And neither does you yelling at Evie three months after crashing his party.”

”I didn’t crash anything. And this has nothing to do with him. Anything else y’wanna say? Y’gonna ask me if I sucked his dick, too? Or if I shoved those pills down his throat?”

Something flashed across Swoops’ face, anger, and Kent almost wished he’d hit him, just so that he could hit back. The dressing room was empty – a conspiracy, a decision made behind his back – no one to stop them if they decided to go all out. “No. I’m done.”

“Good.”

“But don’t expect me not to go to management if you keep this shit up.”

And the anger was Kent’s, flaring up on gasoline and exhaustion and the grimace on Swoops’ face as he caught his arm too tight, but it didn’t fucking matter, because - “The fuck d’ya mean? You going for mutiny or something? One taste of captaincy and y’want more?”

”Of fucking course I don’t!” Swoops hissed, pulling himself from Kent’s grasp. ”I’m just saying – go home, cool off. Pet your cat or jerk off or something. Pull yourself together.”

_You’re not irreplaceable._

“Rezzy was bad enough. We can’t lose you, too.”

Honest, and Kent looked away. “See ya tomorrow, Jeff.”

“See you, Kent. And – fuck, if you need to take a couple of days off, do that. You’re not invincible.”

A hand on his shoulder, and Kent didn’t push him off.

He needed to be out before the rest of the guys came in. He could shower at home.

And he did. Showered and jerked off and petted Purrs and had a couple fingers of whiskey. It had been a year since the Olympics, he realised, a year since the losses against Canada and Finland, and whiskey had tasted better then. On his own, and with Elise, and with Aleksandr. Perhaps cat hair spoiled alcohol. Or the cheap beer he’d had in Massachusetts had ruined his taste buds beyond repair.

Aleksandr was still alive, he found around midnight, scrolling through the social medium Elise had posted the picture of the two of them on. Instagram. Alive and in Russia, and perhaps those two were incompatible, but he made it look easy, surrounded in pictures by snow and other skaters and a dog and music he moved to like a creation its master. Gold medals and blinding smiles with a crooked tooth in the lower right side of his mouth. Elise smiling next to him in one picture, her own silver medal proud against her chest, mascara running by the edges of her eyes from sweat.

She’d sent him a picture, too. Privately, just the two of them, herself in a Rimouski Océanic jersey, dark hair cropped short and a figure much slighter beneath the fabric than it was when they’d met. The last hints of childhood in her cheeks and knees and smile.

_told u i had a crush on u whn i was 14/15_

And she had, he vaguely remembered, when whiskey tasted better, and he was on top of the world, and they hadn’t yet both placed fourth. Or third, as it showed in her newest picture, a bronze medal sent by post, a Russian skater caught doping. Pavlyuchenka. A clit the size of a fucking grape, and Kent couldn’t care less.

Aleksandr hadn’t written. Kent hadn’t expected him to.

Somewhere around the kitchen, Purrs meowed loudly.

Right. Food.

“You really oughta ge yourself a new girl,” Brian-the-nutritionist had told him earlier in the week. Or the week before. And Kent had said something witty, as he always did, reminded him of the meal service he was still on and sometimes ate. When he had the time. When he felt hungry. When he needed something to do with his hands when watching tape. He’d never had an appetite, and Brian knew it. The nutritionist at the Océanics had hated him for it, chewed him out every time he came back from the summer ten pounds lighter than he’d left, fought his ass about getting back in shape before the season started. A doubt every year, despite never proven right. Not fucking once.

On the floor, Purrs was happily munching, butt in the air. It was an odd habit, but one she didn’t seem to be growing out of any time soon. No eating sitting down for her. No, sir.

Despite it all, despite himself, despite the exhaustion in his bones and the taste of loss lingering in the back of his throat, Kent smiled. He fucking loved her, his little ball of fur with a resting bitch face stamped in the front.

Pulling out his phone, he clicked away from his conversation with Elise, and, after a moment’s hesitation, logged out. Made a new account.

_Kit ’Purrs’ Purrson unofficial alternate captain and all-time queen of the Las Vegas Aces._

[Image: a large dark-furred kitten eating from a food bowl with her behind in the air, firmly and almost intentionally ignoring the camera. In the background, the lights of Las Vegas shining]

_oh my god, look at her butt_

Fucking beautiful, she was. Five pounds of absolute perfection.

Brian-the-nutritionist could fuck off with his weight. Five pounds wasn’t a fucking issue, they’d return once he’d gotten his play back. It wasn’t like anyone was checking him when he wasn’t scoring.

And he would start scoring again. It wasn’t a knowledge like falling in love with Jack had been, or falling in love with Purrs, or that he was what he – that he was gay. There was no slap in the face, but it was sudden, and it was real, and once thought, it stayed. Lingered.

And he knew it to be the truth.

He’d start scoring again. He was Kent fucking Parson, and he wasn’t invincible, but he wasn’t done burning, either. Far from it.

_u have bad taste in men_ , he wrote back Elise, pulled Purrs into his lap and kissed her head. Ignored the affronted sounds emitted from her, smiled at the way she arched into the touch. His little princess, and she loved him, too. In her own way.

With a last kiss to her head, he went to bed. Didn’t spare the not-quite-empty glass of whiskey abandoned on the couch table more than a glance and a rinse.

3,000 followers, Instagram showed the next morning. 10,000 after a week and three more pictures.

”Look at that.” Kent scratched Purrs’ head. ”Better keep lickin’ dat butt, ’cause it’s makin’ ya famous.”

Purrs ignored him in favour of doing just that.

*

April 2nd 11.01 AM. To ‘Troy’

_i got tickets to the golnd knights_

_might be nice to watch some1 else get their asses kickwd for a change_

_u in?_

April 2nd 1.03 PM. From ‘Troy’

_If you promise not to yell at any of their rookies, yes._

April 2nd 1.59 PM. To ‘Troy’

_ill try_

April 5th 01.03 AM. To ‘Troy’

_thanks_

April 5th 08.03 AM. From ‘Troy’

_Sure thing, Parse._

_And holy shit, go to bed sooner, it’s no fucking wonder you look dead on your feet._

-/ \\-

Jack signed on April 18th. A rookie contract with the Providence Falconers, two years, pay that would probably triple within the first season. His picture was on the front page of ESPN (and TMZ and Deadspin and - ), smiling. Jack Zimmermann smiling, shaking hands with an older man, the owner, with a smile just as wide but far more fake. Jack’s smile wasn’t fake.

Kent wanted to throw his phone against the wall. Didn’t.

Playoffs had started six days before. The Aces had made it, somehow. Teamwork. Shit like that.

The Falconers hadn’t.

Somehow, that didn’t matter.

-/ \\-

There had been no question from the Aces. Never was. No slaps on the back, either, no glances, nothing save for a shoulder knocking into his – Bubbles, returned – and a dinner invite – Scraps, accepted. Even if he apparently smelled like cat, and Scraps’ dog hid behind the couch all evening.

Evie didn’t look at him.

Probably for the best.

And it didn’t matter, because nothing did during playoffs. As long as they won.

And they did. Not the first game, not the second, either, but the third. The fourth. The sixth. The seventh, and they made second round. Kent returned to his apartment with victory and loss equal beneath his tongue, filling up his throat, pushed aside by exhaustion and something in his chest tightening at the sight of Purrs licking her butt that he’d decided to call love. Even if it felt different to what he’d once called love.

And there was no space for that, either, even if it had curdled and hardened and filled up a space inside of him that refused to be touched by anything.

On Instagram, Elise posted a picture of herself in an Aces’ jersey and very little else, and Kent liked it. Grinned at the chirps the next morning and slapped Swoops’ shoulder.

They had games to win.

And they did.

Until they didn’t.

*

A helmet hit the floor. No yelling. Bubbles never yelled.

No one spoke.

As if there were any words.

The showers turned on, steady flows of water to wipe away tears and blood, to hold until facing the other guys were a possibility again. No matter who had been on the ice and who hadn’t. Who had missed a shot, been a second too slow at a face-off, hadn’t given his everything.

They had all given their everything. Always did.

And so no one spoke, not until only a couple of guys remained under the water, most others dressed or staring at their skates or silently wondering where Burke was. Hoping he wouldn’t show up, because no one could take any of his fucking speeches.

Burke was never to be seen after a playoff loss. Not for a while, at least.

Someone sniffed to Kent’s right. Possibly Evie, possibly Scraps. He didn’t look up, not until the sound appeared again. And again.

Second round. Seven games. Tooth and nail and overtime, and they’d almost made it. Another minute, another powerplay, _anything_ , they’d tell themselves and never each other. They could’ve done it. But they hadn’t.

In a corner, Pops wiped water from his brow, and Kent knew not to talk to him. In another, Lutz and Tady were muttering together, no words exchanged, and they’d be alright. In a third, Aidy was furiously wiping tears from his eyes despite not having played a single shift. Burlap was at his side, rubbing his shoulder without looking, and that was new.

And Kent was in a fourth, except not quite, because he was the captain, and he couldn’t hide the way he had when he was a rookie. Or when he was twenty. Or when Rezzy was still on the team.

Sometimes, Kent marvelled at how alike being a captain and a class clown was.

”I don’t know about you fuckers, but I’m gonna get absolutely shit-faced at the hotel tonight. If anyone wanna join, there’s no bouncer.”

Empty words, but there was a whistle. A laugh. Two.

”Not too much, though, your families don’t need ya coming home drunk. Save the alcohol and play with your kids instead. It’ll getcha in shape, too, trust me, I’ve got three siblings under the age of ten, running after those little shits’s how I’ve got a sixpack.”

”You no sixpack, barely four-pack,” Pops grumbled.

Kent shrugged. ”Better than Smitty’s dad bod. Seriously, man, do us all a favour and go to the fucking gym over the summer.”

”Run after your kids,” Carly said. ”How many’ve you got now, seven?”

The edge of Smitty’s lip went up. ”Three. Youngest just learned to crawl.”

”Teach ’er how to walk over the summer, yeah?”

”Fuck you, Parse, she’s six fucking months, babies don’t walk that early.”

”Not with your shitty genes, they won’t.”

A proper smile. Somewhat. ” _Fuck_ you, Parse.”

Kent grinned, felt it stretch at the edges, and let it. ”I’d rather your wife, to be honest.”

”Oh, you mother _fucker_ \- ”

Exhaustion was the only reason the shoe didn’t hit Kent’s head, but exhaustion didn’t stop laughter from rising up at the look of him all but falling on his ass on the floor as he tripped over his own dropped glove. Not as loud as usual, not by a long fucking shot, but enough.

”Save the killing for when we meet those fuckers next season,” Kent said, slipping a second time trying to get up, more on purpose than not, enough for another bout of laughter.

”Don’t break your fucking neck, Parser, some of us’re looking forward to that!”

More laughter, through the sudden knot in Kent’s chest, too. Ten years now. He wasn’t sixteen years old anymore, with a bag over his head and - 

Through the dressing room, Kent caught Scraps’ eyes, gave him a small smile returned through glinting eyes and a playoff beard covering up the scar on his chin that was more Kent’s fault than the Blackhawk’s. He made a note to drag him along to the gym a couple of times before training camps started. Or make dinner. He probably owed him that, after his rookie year.

”Don’t slack off over the summer,” he interrupted what little conversation was still going, throwing a duffel bag over his shoulder. Last in, first out. ”I can’t carry this entire fucking team on my own, y’know.”

”We’ll have you know, we did just fine before you came along,” Carly said.

”Didn’t you guys, like, lose eighty percent of your games?” Bubbles asked, yelping a moment later as a shirt hit the back of his head, and usually there would be fighting, and there was, but less. Everything was less when playoffs were over, unless they were more, and there were silver and champagne and parades to look forward to.

But not this year.

There was a burn behind his eyes, a set to his shoulders even he couldn’t deny, and he knew he wouldn’t cry. Purrs would hate it if he cried in her fur. She’d probably scratch him again. Or maybe she wouldn’t, but Kent wasn’t taking the chance. She’d have to survive some cuddling, though, but she’d done that more than once. And he loved her for it.

”Nice speech.”

Waiting just outside the dressing room, all casual, arms crossed, as if his team hadn’t just been beaten out of the playoffs. Leaning against the wall like a retired James Dean. 

Kent made a mental note not to look up how he’d looked in his youth. ”Thanks.”

”You’re not a bad captain.”

A statement, nothing else. Never anything else.

Crossing his arms, Kent glanced back towards the door of the dressing room, breathed through the knot in his chest. ”Says the guy who thinks I’m a fucking fag.”

”No one’s perfect, Parson. As long as you don’t bring it into the dressing room. Or onto the ice.”

Quiet words, not quite a threat, and Kent wasn’t sixteen anymore. ”I did say you thought so.”

Burke smiled. Or something almost like it. ”That you did.”


	10. 2015/2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack hits NHL ice, gets the A, and comes out. And all Kent can do is watch from the sidelines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I kind of disappeared. Sorry. Only one more chapter to go, though! Which shouldn't take more than a week, even if it's being an absolute bitch (God, I hate writing endings)
> 
> Warnings: some sex, some homophobia. The usual stuff.
> 
> This chapter is brought to you mostly by 'Dying in LA' by Panic! at the Disco (the second-to-last scene in particular, which was written while listening exclusively to that song) and 'Always Remember Us This Way' by Lady Gaga.

Fourth of July passed, as it always did, in a haze of alcohol, and fireworks, and someone passing out in a corner before midnight.

”I’m sorry, sir,” Kent answered in the morning, leaning against his doorway dressed in Armani sunglasses and a silken frock coat someone had bought as a gag gift. ”I have no idea how puke’s gotten onto your balcony.”

The man in front of him sighed deeply, as he did every year. ”You were the one hosting a party last night. On the roof.”

Kent took a long sip from his wine glass. Tasted coffee. ”That doesn’t prove anything.”

”I can literally see three guys passed out on your floor from here. One of them with a bucket next to him.”

Despite every balance-less pore of his body screaming at him not to, Kent pushed himself a little further off the wall. If any coffee hit the floor, he didn’t notice. The frock coat opened slightly, probably showing more skin than was appropriate, but hiding the view behind him a little more. Hopefully. ”I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

”I think your cat’s trying to eat one of them.”

”Sounds fake but okay.”

For exactly twenty-three seconds, they stared at each other. Kent sipped his coffee.

”Please stop puking onto my balcony,” the man finally said, defeated.

”Will do!” Kent smiled after him before all but running to the kitchen sink to throw up his lungs.

Whatever Pops had brought to the party the night before, it almost tasted better the other way.

*

The first thing Kent saw as he walked into the Aces’ dressing room on the first day of training camps was the banner. Fifteen feet long, two or three wide, black with large gold letters.

‘Five Golden Years’.

”Like the Christmas song,” Scraps said, smile as wide as it was bright. ”Get it?”

Kent tried not to laugh. ”Yeah, Scrappy, I get it.”

”Like rings,” Scrappy said, voice drowned out by Bubbles, ”Five _fucking_ years of kicking our asses!”

A large hand slapped down on Kent’s shoulder. ”Congrats, Parse. Never thought you’d make it this far.”

”Like you could’ve done more than six fucking months!” Smitty yelled.

Carly opened his mouth to retaliate, but Kent was faster. Always was. ”Come on, man, that’s giving him a little more credit than he deserves, don’tcha think?”

”Oh, fuck you, Parse!”

Kent smirked, walking off before Carly could pull him in for a noogie. ”You guys realise we’ve got practice today, right? You need to get ready.”

”Fucking stickler!”

”That Cup isn’t winning itself, Chap!”

A couple more laughs broke out, drowning out whatever answer could have come to that. Kent shook his head and walked to his bench.

”Nice summer?” Scrappy asked from the stall next to his. He looked in shape, if a little soft around the waistband. Nothing a few good practices and a stricter attention to diet couldn’t fix. Kent reminded himself to put the nutritionist on his case.

”It was alright. Purrs hated the weather, though. Kept complaining to me. I ended up installing a shit-ton of fans around the apartment so she wouldn’t boil to death. Or sound like she was.”

Scraps nodded. “I had to do the same for Gretchen.”

“Siberian Huskies aren’t usually too keen on the heat.”

“No.” Scraps shook his head, eyes a million eyes away. “I didn’t consider that when I got her.”

Kent hid a snicker in his shirt. “Bring ‘er to a family skate. She’ll probably love it.”

“I’ll bring her if you bring Purrs.”

“Oh, I’m gonna. Love of my life.”

Scraps laughed. “Who the fuck needs women, eh?”

_Who indeed_. “Fuck, Walter, I can’t be the only American on this team!”

“Fuck you, I’m from Connecticut.”

“Shit, I _know_.”

“Oh, _fuck_ you!”

A jersey narrowly missed Kent’s face, and he retaliated with his own, slapped Scraps firmly on the ice before moving down to tie his skates. He made it as far as his ankles before the noogie came, rough and fun and enough for them both to lose their balance and end up on the floor, a messy pile of limbs and gear and laughter, and there were rookies looking, he noticed, glancing at each other every other moment, and -

“Shit, cap, I thought you told us to get serious here!”

“Fuck you,” Kent replied from beneath Scrappy’s armpit. “Get dressed, kids, y’can fuck around when you get tenure.”

“Oh, _fuck_ you, Parse!”

“Tenure? Shit, Parse, I thought it was Zimmermann who went to college.”

The smile on Kent’s face stiffened, a moment, unnoticed, and he pushed off Scraps. Poked him in the side for good measure until he let out a high-pitched laugh. “I’ve fucked college girls. May have gotten in a professor at some point.”

“Shit, really?”

Scraps, and Kent almost felt bad for lying. Kicked it out a second later. “New York’s wild, man.”

He’d checked the calendar that morning.

Four months. Roadie. Another in early February. Also roadie.

Four months.

-/ \\-

The puck left Swoops’ stick in a turn – not quite a swirl, not until the rookies were settled, and perhaps they’d been a little rough the year before, but that was his headache – and Kent snatched it up before Burlap got the chance. A step to the side, something that was definitely a twirl, and Aidy went down, stuck out his glove, but it was too late. The puck hit the edge of his glove, the other one, his leg, the red line.

No horn. Not in practice.

Slapping Swoops’ glove, he cleared the last few feet to the face-off circle in a glide. Bent down. Waited.

Shot.

Evie set off as soon as the puck hit his stick, a glance to the left – a bad habit, he’d grow out of it, would seriously regret it if he didn’t – and a turn as Chap got in his way. Too long, and he’d need to pass soon, trust the other guys a little more, but that had taken Kent a while, too.

Too long, and Carly snatched it up with a gentle hip-check – and Evie needed to work on his balance, too, he couldn’t keep falling like that – and set off towards the opposite goal. There was no need for Pops to get ready, not with Smitty and Bubbles already in position, sticks at the ready and eyes on Carly’s every move. Burlap was moving in, Scraps just behind him, but Kent and Swoops were catching up, too. A fight, possibly, without fists and checks, but a fight nonetheless, and Kent knew how to sidestep those. Keep his head down and sneak beneath the radar. Score while everyone was looking the other way.

Not always.

It had been months. He was fine.

There were no surprised looks, not with him high-tailing it in the opposite direction as soon as the puck made contact with his stick, and there would be time for them later. Fists, sometimes, checks and dirty looks and chirps that never hurt as much as the fuckers thought, because no one could call him anything worse than he’d called himself, and he’d have a goal. And they wouldn’t.

With a quick pass to Evie, Kent circumvented Tady, kept half an eye on Lutz and the rest on Aidy as the puck returned, and that was it. Wrist, heel, turn, timing and angles and strength.

And a save.

“Nice,” he told Aidy, received a wide smile in return. A slap on the back after practice, but the end was centuries away, and he was more than happy to wait. Savour the moment. Breathe in air that never threatened to choke him, even as it filled every pore and cell and capillary in his body. His very soul, if such a thing existed.

He scored another goal.

So did Evie. And Tady. And Carly. Pops, too, a millisecond after Burke had blown the whistle and they had all relaxed. The perfect angle, inches off Swoops’ and Evie’s and Carly’s skates, the most glorious fucking thing Kent had ever seen. And Pops knew it.

“We gotta make a play outta that,” Lutz said in the dressing room, and a couple of guys made noises of agreement, all drowned beneath Pops’ whoop. Strings of Russian. A stick broken on the floor and more laughter.

Sometimes, he really fucking loved his team.

Other times, he – didn’t know.

Same day, sometimes.

All he wanted was a fucking sandwich.

And all he got were five Aces huddled around Scrappy, the only one sitting down, eyes glued to the screen of his phone. Behind them, the mid-day sun shone in through the window, and had they been wearing something other than sweaty t-shirts, it would’ve looked like a fucking painting. Medieval. Michelangelo and shit.

But they weren’t. And Michelangelo wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.

”You know you can’t watch porn during work, right?”

Without looking up, Carly gave him the finger. ”Not fucking porn, Parse. Falcs TV.”

“Like, behind the scenes from the Falconers,” Bubbles explained.

“I know what Falcs TV is,” Kent said, ignoring the pinch in his stomach. The annoyance made sense, he was captain, they were wasting time, it was - “All I’m wondering is why.”

Smitty snorted. “’cause it’s fucking hilarious, is what it is.”

“His English’s so bad,” Evie agreed.

“Keep that away from the mics, Marina’ll tear ya to pieces,” Kent said, routine at this point, feet taking him closer to the phone and the sounds emitted from it than he wanted. Too close. Close enough.

On the screen, a Falconer’s forward – Mashkov, Russian, hated him – was talking, but the camera shifted before Kent could figure out what about, to a table with three veteran players. Robinson, Kent recognised, his bearded friend, Sebastien St. Martin. A firm trio for the past three years. Strong guys. Good guys. Retired within the next five years.

” - want to hear your poem.”

And apparently poets.

”Fuck you, Tater.”

Carly snickered. ”Fuckin’ sensitive souls, all of ’em.”

Kent snickered, the sound lost beneath the others’, and he got it. Watching other teams’ shit was fun. Even if it was – the Falconers. It wasn’t as if he actually cared about - 

”HEEEEY! ZIMMBONI!”

Except he did. He always fucking did.

On the screen, Jack looked up, directly into the camera, directly into Kent’s fucking _soul_ , eyes wide in what was either surprise or terror. He had gained weight since the last time Kent saw him. Even more. Looked every bit the professional player he had always been supposed to become and now was.

”He looks alive,” Smitty said, and Kent wanted to punch the surprise out of his voice. Or punch Jack. Or himself, for good measure. Instead, he focused on his breathing, kept it steady, inconspicuous, normal.

Like Jack had.

And he’d never been as fucked up as him.

And he still looked terrified. ”Oh. Hello.” He cleared his throat. ”Good morning.” The facade was coming back on, like it had every time they stepped out the door as teenagers. Never hid the terror, though. The nerves. ”Hi, Tater!”

Achingly familiar and painfully foreign.

”Awkward ~ ” Carly sing-songed. Next to him, Swoops snickered.

”All right!” Mashkov threw an arm around Jack’s shoulder. ”How you’re liking being Falconer?”

”Ah, well.” The slightest hint of a smile, as fake and rehearsed as Kent’s breathing. ”Thanks! It’s great. Everyone has been really welcoming. It really feels like I’m at home.” He shifted under Mashkov’s arm. Next to Kent, Bubbles laughed ”Yeah, I’m looking forward to the start of the season and our first game there, going out there as a Falconer, and really - ”

”Hahaha, okay, Zimmboni, not real interview!”

”Fuckin’ hockey robot,” Smitty muttered. ”Was he like that in Juniors, too?”

Jack’s face cracked in another nervous smile. ”Haha. Right.”

Even his laughing was the same. Kent could feel the moons of his nails through his jeans. ”Not all of the time.”

It had been too long to speak of love, he didn’t love him anymore, and it had been six fucking years. Too fucking long. And he still couldn’t -

”Lightning questions! Your girlfriend so good cook, you know - ”

Kent had to fight not to burst out laughing. Or crying. Girlfriend - was that something Jack had told them? Something ’Zimmboni’ had told them?

” - so when I’m coming over, huh? Haha!”

Better than googly-eyeing short, blonde boys at house parties where God and TMZ could snap a picture at any fucking time. At least the overdose hadn’t ruined his brain completely.

Jack’s eyes flickered again. ”Uh, haha?”

He never had been a good liar.

”Puck bunny,” Carly said definitively.

Bubbles frowned. ”How do you know?”

”It has to be, who else’d wanna fuck a junkie?”

Kent would. Six fucking years, nine, and given the chance, a sliver, a half-whispered promise, he’d - 

He wouldn’t. Not anymore. Jack could come crawling back on his hands and knees, and Kent would spit in his face. He would.

He would.

“I’mma head on home. Purrs needs feeding. Try to tear yourselves away from that some day.”

It was an obvious lie, so thick it was almost funny, but no one asked. No one even looked up. And that was the Las Vegas Aces.

No fucking questions.

And no fucking answers. Over his dead body, and they’d have to drag him out kicking and screaming.

*

The poster was released a couple days later, put up on billboards around Providence (according to Twitter) and looking too good to be true (according to the few women-run fan accounts Kent may or may not have started following on other social media sites he’d rather come out than admit to using). To some degree, he agreed with them, even if it had become difficult to feel attracted to men in NHL jerseys. A bad habit he got rid of early on in his career, but a habit difficult to keep up when it was Jack in the jersey with a determined look on his eyes, ready to take on whatever shit an opposing team could throw at him.

His Ma still had a copy of his first billboard. She’d shown him over the summer, and they’d laughed about it. At him, posing with serious eyes and a fake stick with Sonny and Carly at his sides, smirking like nothing could ever bother him. Back then, he’d dreamed of Jack there, too, black jersey, ace of spades on his chest, a nervous smile on his face and his eyes darting to Kent at every other second to the great frustration of the photographer. With Jack at his side, Kent’s smile might even have been real.

He’d never told his Ma that. He’d never told anyone that.

And he’d barely told himself about other dreams, day dreams of his teenage years, a name on the back of Jack’s jersey that wasn’t Zimmermann. Or one on his own that wasn’t Parson. Whenever he thought of those dreams now, when they popped up at the most inopportune times, he wanted to punch his past self in the fucking face. Or drink himself into that alcohol coma, now that whiskey was beginning to taste good again.

And the colours Jack wore were white and blue, on his chest was the head of a falcon, and the men at his sides were some Kent had played against, never with, young and handsome and about as interesting as pieces of cardboard in the back of the throat.

Fate had made every childhood dream of his come true. Every single one, but that.

(Three months.)

-/ \\-

Whoever had decided to hire figure skaters for the season opener needed either a raise or a firing squad. A nod to Swoops’ past, or the pictures that had been circulating of him at an ice show, Elise with the both of them, or perhaps it was just the asses. Tits and glitter and perfect femininity.

As Kent stepped onto the ice, he was immediately grabbed by the hands by the smallest woman on the ice, the jury was still out.

It was fun, at least. For some. Music blaring, lights moving at seizure-inducing speed and a rainbow of colours that didn’t belong in an ice rink and were somehow there anywhere, figure skaters swirling around in dangerously short skirts, gold and black blending together with neon and noise.

By the rink sides, the Aces not yet on the ice couldn’t tear their eyes away. Glinting, golden lips and mid-air splits. Appealing to the main audience for sure. Kent snickered, tried not to fall too far behind the woman leading him across the ice. Hopefully the guys were able to stay upright during their part.

Swoops was having the time of his life, swirling around at a pace and precision far from the woman dancing with him and far from the other guys trying not to fall over their own feet. A beautiful middle ground, impressive and entertaining simultaneously, only a little bit emasculating.

Enough.

At last, before too many gifs could be made, the music came to an abrupt halt as the Los Angeles Kings ran onto the ice and chased the figure skaters off with raised sticks and roars of superior masculinity.

The audience loved it. Or hated it. Hated the Kings for sure. By the time Kent and the captain bent down for the puck-drop, the crowd was all but frothing at the mouth, wanting nothing but the total annihilation of the Kings from their arena.

_Their_ arena.

Vegas certainly hadn’t been like that when Kent first arrived, he thought and shot the puck to the side where it was swiftly caught by Swoops and passed off. Halfway through the Kings’ defensive zone, it hit Kent’s stick again, followed him towards the goal. Around them, the crowd roared its approval at his every move, roared for the victory they were expecting, wouldn’t fucking accept anything else, and Kent wasn’t one to disappoint. Not if he could get around it.

New season. New chance.

You could always reinvent yourself in Vegas. Vegas reinvented itself all the fucking time.

Kent took the shot.

Breathed in.

Roared.

*

”Honey, I’m home!”

No response. Not like he’d expected any.

Still, when he entered the living room, dark save for the neon shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the faint patter of paws could be heard from the master bedroom. Seconds later, Purrs appeared in all her glory, made a beeline for him. With a grin on his face and something warm and safe in the pit of his stomach, Kent dropped to his knees and held out his hands for her to nuzzle into.

”Hey, baby,” he whispered. ”Didja miss me?”

Purrs let out a meow, retracted her head and turned away. With determined steps, she made a new beeline for her food bowl, sat herself down in front of it. Meowed.

From his seat on the floor, Kent watched. She watched him back. He raised an eyebrow. She meowed again, tail swishing softly across the floor.

Kent sighed. ”Alright, you win.”

With Purrs’ eyes firmly on him, he followed her to the kitchen, pulled out her food from the cupboard. Her ears went into alert as he poured it out, and as soon as he pulled back, she pounced like the fierce fucking lioness that she was.

”Just keeping me around for the food, are ya?”

Purrs kept eating, butt in the air. Not a glance his way, and he loved her so much he could barely stand it. But he could still breathe, and he loved her even more for that.

”And here I thought y’loved me,” Kent complained and threw himself down on the couch, smile wide and irrepressible and entirely unnoticed. Even if she was able to understand human expressions. Which she probably wasn’t. Unless that was something cats could do. “I love you.”

Somehow – and not because of the words, there was no way it was because of the words – Purrs lifted her head from the food bowl. With her eyes firmly on him, she walked towards the couch, tail high and swinging with ever move of her hips until she jumped up to stand between his thighs. Purred.

Kent smiled, nuzzled the warm fur on her back. ”So y’really love me, too, huh?”

She purred again, let out something between a mewl and a proper meow, and for the briefest of moments, everything was alright.

Then, she was gone, walking towards her empty water bowl with his eyes on her back (or butt) and sat down with a look in her eyes he could only describe as expectant.

”Meow,” she complained.

“Fuck you, too,” Kent said. Filled her bowl. Had her back in his lap by the time he was halfway through a glass of whiskey and the Falcs opener queued up on the TV. Taped earlier that evening. Muted. Until the game actually started.

It was curiosity. Alcohol. Nostalgia. Fucking pathetic.

On the screen, one blue-and-white-clad man stepped onto the ice after the other, each raising their stick in greeting, and the crowd probably loved them. Or hated them. Or felt nothing. The sound was still off.

Jack was eleventh. Kent didn’t even have to see his face or the number on his jersey to recognise him, the move of his skates against the ice and the way he held his stick said it all.

Six fucking years.

The camera zoomed in on his face almost as soon as it could, showed the thousands of people watching that he was indeed alive and kicking, it wasn’t just some PR stunt. He was actually going to play, finally, on NHL ice, after six _fucking_ years.

Looked healthy, too, blood in his face and calm, fluid movements. No uncertainty. Not that he would ever let it show if there was, not until a door had closed behind him and no one could hear him scream. With the way he was moving on the ice, you wouldn’t think that was something that would happen at all. No one had in the Q.

Kent took a long swig of whiskey, kept his eyes on Jack as warm-ups unfolded. Still no hesitance, nothing but quiet confidence and focus. Jack fucking Zimmermann in a fucking nutshell.

At some point, as Jack skated past a particularly uproarious section by the glass, a loud roar was caught by the microphones.

”I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like that,” one commentator laughed.

”If I had to guess, I’d say that’d be his college teammates,” the other said. ”I think it says Samwell on that sign, doesn’t it?”

It did. And even if it hadn’t, Jack skating past the spot again with something that was almost – no, fully – a smile on his face said enough. It was soft, too vulnerable for someone about to play in a hockey game, and Kent wanted to reach through the screen and pull him to safety, somewhere he wouldn’t get a fist in the face for looking like that. And he wanted to be that fist.

And he didn’t want to kiss him. Never again.

There was nothing more he could do, other than watch. A win, because of course it was.

The Aces had gotten one, too.

(Two months.)

-/ \\-

A Star bent down. Carly bent down. The crowd held its breath.

The puck fell, the world descended into chaos, and Kent was in the heart of it. Exactly where he belonged. A Star was already running, puck just in front of him, Kent hot on his heels. He was a big guy, easily two and a half hundred pounds, all too easy to catch up to, much harder to get the puck from. Checking was out of the picture, as was engaging in any drawn-out battle. Too much mass, too close to the boards.

It had to be swift, then.

The pass showed itself in the angle of the Star’s elbow before his eyes. With a subtle add in speed, not enough for the fucker to notice, enough for the commentators, he lifted his own stick ever so slightly, snatching the puck from right before the down-swing and left in the opposite direction. Behind him was a yell - anger, or something like it - but Kent was already too far away.

A couple of seconds, and the puck was his. Kent grinned. Fucking beautiful. Barely any relief left.

Six months now.

He passed on the puck as another Star got a little too close, watched Swoops set off and swirl past a Star, pass the puck again as Carly got past a Star of his own. On the other side of the rink, Kent kept running. The blue line was coming up, would be at Kent’s skate the second the puck came to him from Carly, the shot would be clear, no Stars could make it in time if they did it fast enough. None would have time to stop Kent from scoring, either.

A matter of seconds.

The puck didn’t come.

Instead, a sound went through the crowd, and Kent kicked his skate into the ice, nearly spat out a swear at the sight of Carly and a Star by the boards, hitting each other more than the puck. Even from a quarter of the rink away, Carly’s face was beet red.

A whistle blew.

Fucking _seconds_ , and Kent growled, swallowed the sound down as a ref skated up to him.

”Blue line, Parson.”

”The fuck?”

The man nodded to the ground. Kent followed his gaze. The corner of his right skate was indeed on the blue line, maybe a quarter of an inch on the wrong side. ”Oh, come on, that’s nothing!”

”Rules,” the ref said. Moving to face the crowd, he turned on his mic. ”Two minutes for icing.”

Fucking _seconds_. ”Fuck you!”

”Just doing my job.”

He passed Carly on the way to the box, sent him a dirty look, ripe for the cameras. Got one back.

Bubbles took the face-off, lost the puck to a Star who was gone before he could fully notice. Before long, Pops was down in the net, Kent’s hands fisted in his gloves, Scrappy rushing in with his eyes on the two advancing Stars. A few more were following back, a few Aces with them, and a pass could be done, but they wouldn’t. Kent had played the fuckers enough to know. If the Aces were a team that seemed to play chaotic, the Stars were even worse.

The strategy of a team used to losing.

It was no wonder the Aces were the team that never grew up. The lost boys of the NHL, someone had once written, in an article now framed just outside their dressing room.

When the taste of victory was impossible to recall, you filled your mouth with blood.

The Star went down like a sack of potatoes, hit the ice with a crack of his helmet against the ice and an all but frothing Carly on top of him. A dirty hit without a shadow of doubt, bound to give the Stars one hell of a powerplay no matter how quickly Bubbles was there to pull him off.

Kent hadn’t realised he had sworn until the official in the box shushed him, nodded at a nearby camera. As if anyone was watching his reaction.

Captain’s duty, Burke would’ve said, and Kent would’ve spat in his face. In his mind, at least.

On the ice, the Star was being helped off by a couple of teammates, and both linemen were flanking the ref, ready to push Carly back if he should move on from yelling.

He didn’t.

If he had, Kent would’ve needed to pull him aside in the tunnel or the dressing room or after the game. Have a chat. Spew some shit neither of them believed and they both knew he didn’t give two rats’ asses about.

Perhaps some captains would do it anyway, even with Carly’s fists staying inside of his gloves. Figure out if something was going on, let him know that bringing that shit onto the ice wasn’t acceptable. Care.

Shit like that, that Kent had never done and wasn’t about to fucking begin to do.

It wasn’t like they’d ever lost to the Stars. Not even earlier in the year. The Aces could manage without Kent Parson. He wasn’t irreplaceable. And he wasn’t invincible, because no one was, and they managed without him.

Didn’t hurt when it was only two minutes.

In the dressing room afterwards, Carly stayed in a corner by himself, left quickly with his phone to his ear.

“Wife,” Lutz said, and no one said anything else. Asked any questions.

No one else’s business. Nothing Kent cared about.

A notification had popped up on his phone during the game, the stupid google alert he’d set up years before and should probably turn off but never fucking bothered to.

Providence Falconer forward out with a puck to his face. As if Kent cared.

The replay was dramatic, a horrible angle, gave Kent absolutely nothing on Jack’s condition. One second, the puck was being pushed around on the ice, the next it went flying to the lower part of his face, sent a small splatter of blood through the air and his head snapping to the side. He was taken off the ice with an arm around his shoulders, a piece of fabric pressed against his mouth, eyes screwed together in pain or concentration. Or both.

”Fucking idiot,” Kent muttered, pocketed his phone and ignored the hotel bar in favour of the stairs.

The game had ended an hour and a half prior. There would be no more news that night, nothing until the morning. Kent didn’t turn off his phone, but he left it on the night stand separating his and Scrappy’s beds, tried to focus on the toothbrush in his mouth.

A shot like that, Jack had probably lost a tooth. Probably wouldn’t get it fixed for a couple of days, if ever. Wouldn’t look as good as he did now with teeth missing.

(Except he did, Kent knew, after a couple of games in the Q holding Jack’s hand while a doctor helped stop the bleeding in his mouth. Back then, it had been fixed immediately, too, a new tooth shining back after only a couple of days. They hadn’t talked about the two holes in Kent’s mouth. He’d gotten them fixed in his second year on the Aces.)

It was part of the job, taking a puck to the face from time to time. Or a fist. Jack would just have to get used to it, fix it afterwards if it bothered him.

Kent spat out the toothpaste, frowned at the slight pink tint to the bubbles. Brought a hand to his cheek.

When he came back to the room, his phone had run out of battery.

(One month.)

-/ \\-

Throwing his head back, Kent stifled a cry in his fist, curled the other into a pillow next to his waist. Between his legs, Bjørnholt’s beard kept scraping against his thighs, and he’d draw blood if he didn’t stop soon, but the last waves of pleasure were still rolling, and Kent had no intention of ending them before they turned to pain. Overstimulation, and that shit wasn’t fair, but he nudged Bjørnholt’s head out of the way and rolled off the condom, took a moment to appreciate the red and swollen curves of Bjørnholt’s lips before tying it and throwing it into the waste basket next to the bed. Turning back, he was met by the very same lips on his, lingering, too long, and another nudge allowed him to roll over and grab his underwear from where it had fallen off the bed.

Outside, through a window that wasn’t floor-to-ceiling or covered by partly see-through curtains, the sun disappeared past Nashville’s skyline. Not as beautiful as in Vegas, less merciless, not as gentle as in Providence.

”Are you okay?”

He didn’t need gentleness.

Sparing a quick glance back – a nice sight, soft chest hair, great dick – Kent pulled on his trousers. ”I’m fine.”

”You seemed distracted.”

Pulling a t-shirt over his head, Kent kept his eyes forward. ”It’s a little hard to be distracted when someone’s sucking you off.”

Behind him, Bjørnholt sighed. Or something like it. ”I was just wondering … ”

It took a moment, but finally Kent located his flannel curled between the bedside table and the bed. ”What?”

The mattress moved. ”Jack Zimmermann - ”

Halfway up the shirt, Kent’s fingers froze. A heartbeat, nothing more. ”What about him?”

”You were with him, right?” Bjørnholt asked, voice soft, way too fucking - 

”No. I wasn’t.”

Silence. Blessed, blessed silence. Kent looked around for his cap.

“Were you - “ Bjørnholt cut himself off, and Kent was grateful. Outside, the Nashville skyline shone, nowhere near as beautiful as Las Vegas, nowhere near as _alive_ , and he was tired, and he wanted to go home. Anything but deal with Bjørnholt’s shit.

That was the downsides of a lover. A fuck-buddy. Fucking _questions_.

”You were in love with him.”

”That’s none of your fucking business.”

Wrong words, warped as soon as they left his mouth. Nothing he could do about it, other than find that fucking cap - 

”Kent, are you still - ”

”No.” With a sharp breath, Kent left for the hallway. He had enough caps anyway. He could buy another if he missed it.

Feet hit the floor behind him. ”It just seems like - ”

”We – ” Kent bit down the words and pulled on his shoes. ”It’s none of your fucking business, alright? None of it.”

” … I’m sorry.”

He looked a fright, all pale skin and blond hair and red marks standing out like blood in the snow. Blood on the ice. And a face like a kicked puppy.

Kent shook his head. ”No fucking need to be sorry, man. Just let it go. I need to get back.”

In the corner of his eyes, as his fingers worked on the shoelaces, Bjørnholt nodded. Didn’t move. And Kent looked away. Pulled his laces tight. Stood up.

”Do you know what my name is?”

Frowned. ”It’s Lars, right? Lars Bjørnholt?”

Another silence, and turned towards the door. An annoying lock, both a handle and a chain. Old-fashioned. He hadn’t seen that since he was a kid, visiting friends in another part of New York City.

”You don’t call me Lars.”

”Of course not.”

Friends whose names he could no longer remember, and whose faces had begun to blur.

“I don’t think we should do this again,” Bjørnholt said, quiet, almost entirely silent, and Kent shrugged.

“Okay.”

”Okay?”

Kent shrugged again. ”I’m not gonna pressure ya or anything. If y’don’t wanna fuck, we won’t.”

”Then we won’t,” Bjørnholt concluded. Bit his lip. Folded his arms. ”Goodbye.”

”Bye.” The door clicked shut after Kent, and he was left standing in the hallway with the odd feeling of having forgotten something. That wasn’t the cap.

And didn’t matter.

(Two weeks.)

-/ \\-

There had been times in Kent’s life where he’d wished time would stop. The five weeks between the Memorial Cup final and the draft. The two weeks of the 2010 Olympics. When he was the eye of the hurricane with a game swirling around him and the crowd roaring and on fucking fire.

And there were times where time had actually stopped. The night before the draft. The draft itself. The time he and Sonny had agreed to keep each other’s secrets, before Kent fucked him over.

For the first time in his life, he was beginning to wish that time would go on without him. Skip a couple of days, a couple of weeks, allow him to wake up on the other side. Be gentle, for once. Merciful.

He’d never been a coward. And he’d never needed anyone’s pity.

”We’ve seen quite a change in play from you recently, almost a return to the penalties you got in your rookie year, is there a reason behind that?”

Kent resisted running a hand through his hair, kept his arms resting on his legs instead, kept his face neutral. ”Every game’s different, so is every season, sometimes you have to try things out. Keep everyone on their toes, y’know, make the game unpredictable.”

Had it been another time, another year, he would’ve tried a chuckle. Or a smirk. He wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t invincible, either. He was only human.

And the clock was counting down.

”The rate of penalties can’t be something the team appreciates, can it?”

”I’m lucky to have a good group of guys behind me, we all support each other, and we all get that you can’t find something that works without taking some chances here and there. And I wouldn’t be taking all those chances if I didn’t know the rest of the team weren’t more than capable of winning the game without me.”

Marina Teterya would be proud, even if Barry-the-nutritionist wasn’t. Or Kenan whose keys he still hadn’t given back. Or his Ma who was getting more and more fed up with one-word answers and faked excuses. Or Burke, who had forbidden the plays he was once more doing the second the Aces had established themselves as a proper NHL team and not some young and street-smart upstarts with something to prove.

”Are you doing anything differently to prepare for your upcoming game against the Providence Falconers - ”

And the clock was counting down.

“ - and against Jack Zimmermann?”

The vulture wasn’t smiling, too much of a professional, but there was an ill-hidden glee in his eyes. Kent looked away. Ignored whatever was tightening inside of him.

As prevalent as he was there, it took him by surprise at times that Jack existed outside of his own mind. That Jack could be spoken about by other people, and they would mean the same man that still haunted Kent’s dreams. The love interest and antagonist of the story of Kent’s life all rolled up in one tall, French-Canadian package. You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain.

And he was officially watching too much TV.

”Jack - ” Kent forced himself not to swallow. Or inhale. Or tell the vulture to shove his microphone up his own fucking ass. ” … Zimmermann obviously has made an impact but, you know, we prepare for teams … ” He trailed off, took a subtle breath before continuing. ”But we’re just gonna watch our tape and play our game … treat it like any other one in the eighty-two.”

Somehow, blessedly, it was enough. Another question took its place, something with fewer barbs and less blood, and Kent could do that. He was the captain, he was a living legend, he’d been a golden rookie. He’d always been able to do more than he’d been given credit for.

And, eventually, they left him alone. Got their sound bites and quotes and discussions, and out they walked, single file with Marina Teterya’s eyes on their backs, and only the players were left.

And Kent hit the showers.

”I miss you,” he’d said, whispered it into skin he had once known like his own, words that had felt so right and rung so true but which now haunted his lips and mind and every fucking waking thought when Jack once more became too real and too much like someone he had never known.

The words hadn’t mattered, not in the fucking least, because the past was not the present, would never be the future, and Kent was alone.

Jack had left him alone.

A few days later, possibly a few hours, Jack did an interview, too. Not after a game, before one, Danielle Macmillan and skirt suits and a black Falconer’s cap.

“Jack, how are you preparing for the Aces next week?”

A ticking clock, and Kent’s hands had begun to shake, curled into fists he couldn’t remember making, and he forced himself to breathe through the tightness in his chest and the pain in his throat and burn behind his eyes. He was alone, and he was not, and he wasn’t going to cry.

“Ah, just, you know – sticking to our game. We’ve been on a good run at home.”

“But you and Kent Parson - “ And there it was. As it always had been and always would be, because Jack was a ghost that refused to leave, and he was living and breathing and the words hadn’t mattered. “This is your first encounter in a rink since you won the Memorial Cup together … There’s a lot of history there, isn’t there?”

“Yeah. But it’s all in the past.”

Nothing had mattered. Not a single fucking thing.

One week.

There had been times in Kent’s life where he had wished for time to stop, and times where it had, and as much as he wished it would go on without him, it never would. Six days, and then there were five, four spent in a rink, three with Purrs in his lap, two with victory burning in his veins and on the tip of his tongue, one wishing he had a cock to suck that wouldn’t taste of Jack, and then there were none.

Consciousness came slowly, gradually, with an aftertaste of bile in the back of his throat and something in his stomach curling itself so tightly it hurt to breathe, flooding to fill his entire body until he found himself hunched over a toilet bowl in a futile attempt to get it out. A stone tasting of whiskey and burning like his own fire, heavy and unmoving inside of him when he leaned back against the tub he never used to breathe. In and out, like Jack used to do. Before a game.

A part of Kent wondered if he still did that. If he was doing it right now. If there was someone there to hold him through it, rub his back, dry his tears.

Banging his fist against the tub would be a bad idea. Couldn’t play with an injured hand.

It would be a good excuse, though. Banged up hand, sorry coach, sitting this one out.

And by God, he wanted to. That, or hit his fist against Jack’s jaw until both broke, go in with the other until every bone in their bodies had broken, and they were nothing but fractured pieces on the ice. Impossible to tell apart and away from the eyes and judgements of those who could never understand.

Or he could stay inside. It would be easy to, just stay in the bathroom, or go back to bed, call in sick. Not call in at all. Just go back to sleep.

Except he wasn’t a fucking coward, and whatever game Jack wanted to play, Kent could play better.

”Their defencemen are old,” Burke said in the dressing room, steady voice and steady eyes, and Kent’s hands didn’t shake anymore. ”- but not to be underestimated under any fucking circumstances. Am I making myself clear? No slowing down ’cause of a grey hair or two.”

Carly snickered. Hid it under a cough.

”Am I making myself clear?”

”Yes, coach.”

Kent mouthed the words with him. Didn’t trust his voice, or his tongue. Didn’t know what words might come out if he wasn’t careful. If they would be words at all. If it wouldn’t be fire.

Because Jack was in the building, too, sitting on a bench like this, closer than he’d been in years, listening to his own coach analysing the Aces’ weaknesses next to men Kent had never known and never would. Men that weren’t him anymore and never fucking would be again. Not if Jack had any say in the matter.

”Awesome. Now get your asses out there, make those Falcs wish they’d never stepped foot on ice!”

A roar, distant and all-encompassing, smelling blood and ready to pounce. Tear. _Maul_.

And Kent roared with them.

They had a game to win. And there would be no mercy. Old faces or new, it didn’t matter. Fresh meat or vets, they’d be eaten up.

”Long time no see,” Robinson greeted at the faceoff.

Kent blinked, pulled up a smirk a second later. Pushed down the urge to _bite_. ”Heard ya got injured last season. Y’good now?”

”I’m not gonna go easy on you, Parson, you realise that, right?”

Jack wasn’t on the ice yet. Kent didn’t check to see if he was on the bench. If he was watching him. ”I’d be disappointed if y’did.”

A smile returned, something that wouldn’t be a fist bump, because they weren’t teammates anymore and would never be again, and they both had warm-ups to do. Robinson more than Kent, because Kent was twenty-five years old, and he was on fucking fire, and Robinson wasn’t.

They both had a game to win, and only one would emerge victorious.

The puck dropped, shot to the side by Kent before it even touched the ice, and he ran. Kept his eyes on the puck, on the game, on glimpses of jerseys that never became faces. Waited for the relief of the game to wash over him and remove everything that wasn’t Kent Parson, the hockey player, the captain, the fucking _legend_. As it always did, as it always had, but it didn’t, so he kept running.

Jack wasn’t on the ice yet. Still a rookie, still a test, and Kent ran without worry that someone would catch up, because no one had since he – since they were in the Q. Like he had sometimes managed to do.

Or perhaps Kent had just let him, had slowed down without noticing to keep him by his side. They had worked so well together, after all. The two of them.

But they weren’t the players they had been back then. They weren’t those boys, drunk with ambition and on victory after victory after victory after victory. They had been ParsonandZimmermann, ParserandJack, KennyandZimms, and they had been a fucking forest fire, tearing through the QMJHL and leaving not a single record free from becoming ashes in their wake.

Jack had perished in that fire. Become part of the ashes that he had now finally risen from.

And Kent had continued burning.

Perhaps Jack had been his kerosene. His flint stone. His oxygen.

They had been so _good_ together.

They had burned each other to crisps, leaving only the inflammable parts gasping for air they had stolen from each other’s mouths.

Kent was fire, and Jack was ice. Jack had been burned, but Kent had frostbites lining every inch of skin Jack had ever touched. He would’ve let him have it all.

And Jack stepped onto the ice, jumped with a high-five and a nod from the coach, wearing white and blue and flames of ice in his eyes. For the fraction of a second, before they were both once more swept into the hurricane that was hockey, blue met Kent’s eyes, but it wasn’t Jack’s. The jersey stared at him, mocked him, proudly displayed the number one and his name, the one he’d inherited from his father. The one he’d once confessed while drunk that he wished had been his mother’s instead.

Perhaps that would’ve made things easier.

Perhaps it would’ve made them softer.

The puck dropped, shot to Kent in the blink of an eye, and he was off within another, one skate ahead, blue and white and black and gold flashing in the corners of his eyes. The goal ahead.

And Jack was behind him.

The realisation hit like a slap, a punch to the stomach, like spit on his _fucking_ face.

Like cum and nostalgia and something that wasn’t tears in his eyes, because tears didn’t belong on the ice, and Kent did. He always would.

Seven _fucking_ years, and he still didn’t need to look.

The D-men did their best, but he was Kent fucking Parson, and he was a pathetic fucking faggot, and there was no fucking way he was going to let any fucking D-men get in his way. Not when Jack was behind him, in colours they didn’t share anymore but which the men trying to block his path wore with pride they didn’t deserve.

The puck went in clean, shot inches from the goalie, and Kent was gone once more. He caught Jack’s eye as he skated away, caught the frown, the go-to layout of his face to those that didn’t know him, a look of disappointment and something that wasn’t allowed to be fear to those that did.

Kent might as well have punched him in the stomach.

Good.

Someone in black said something to him, a passing word, a chirp, a “fuck you, Parse!” at whatever he responded, but the game was beginning again, had never fucking stopped, and Jack was still on the ice, blue and white in the corner of Kent’s eyes. A quiet, constant presence he couldn’t avoid, no matter how fast he ran.

At no point did Jack look over his shoulder.

Kent wanted to tear him to pieces, rip up the wound he knew he’d left matching his own. Year-old and infected, ripped up again and again and again, by Jack or fate or Kent himself, it didn’t matter. The scar would be uglier than the truth, but that didn’t matter, either.

Nothing did.

When Kent glanced at the clock again, the minute and a half shining back shocked him, but shock was another thing there was no space for on the ice. That, and them, and everything they weren’t.

The puck dropped, and Jack shot it to the side where it was caught by a Falconer with baby far still lining his cheeks and an unsure look in his eyes. It would be a swift pass back, rookies never dared hold pucks for long, and it was. Back to Jack, and to Mashkov, and to Jack again, and Kent ran after him. Catching up was almost laughably easy, even with nearly three periods bursting his bones from within, because Jack’s new bulk had done nothing for his speed, and Kent had always been faster.

For something that wasn’t quite a second, possibly the beat of a heart, eternity and the blink of an eye, Kent blocked his path, and for the first time in the entire game, their eyes met.

There was no fucking way Kent was going to let him get what he wanted.

Sky blue eyes widened, went straight to the stone in Kent’s gut – satisfaction, some twisted twin of it, something that wasn’t love anymore and hadn’t -

\- and then Jack was gone, cutting to the side in the split-second Kent had let his guard slip.

With a swear under his breath and something boiling just beneath his skin, Kent set after him, stick held as far out as possible. The goal was coming up, the D-men were too slow, the crowd roaring loud enough for Kent’s eardrums to burst and for his entire body to set on fire and freeze at the same time, and Jack lifted his stick.

Shot.

They didn’t stand a fucking chance. Not against Jack _fucking_ Zimmermann.

Between the pipes, Pops’ face twisted, and someone slapped his shoulder a couple of times, Kent didn’t see who. Instead, he saw Jack skate away, the beginning of a smile blooming as soon as he hit the rough-and-tumble of his teammates.

The son of a fucking _bitch_.

The puck dropped again, went to the side off Kent’s stick, onto Tady’s. A Falconer – St. Martin – was shouldered to the side, and the puck returned to Kent already running as fast as his legs would let him. Faster than that, because he was Kent fucking Parson, and they had twenty seconds left, and this was the game Jack wanted to play. The game he’d always wanted to play.

And what they’d had was history.

Something hot and burning tore through Kent’s body, mixed with adrenaline and exhaustion and the taste of bile in the back of his throat until he was a fucking Molotov cocktail, ready to ruin whatever the fuck he was thrown at. In his ears, blood was roaring in tune with the crowd, the skates slashing against ice, someone’s breathing.

His own, he realised.

And that didn’t matter, either.

The Falconer’s goalie grew, blue and white and black mixed in the edge of his vision, and Kent kept running, ignored the strain, the noise, the stone in the pit of his stomach, everything but the goal.

And Jack, still somewhere behind him.

Had they played together, Kent would’ve swung around and sent the puck back, placed it exactly where Jack needed it to be to shoot it over the goalie’s shoulder.

But they didn’t play together.

Beneath what looked like fucking eyeliner, the goalie’s eyes widened. At his side, a D-man stepped forward, too late, _much_ too late, and the crowd’s roars spiked.

Kent closed his eyes.

The impact knocked the air out of the goalie, onto the side of Kent’s face, but neither paid it much attention as another body rammed into them, and they all fell in a mess of limbs and gear. Kent’s stick was torn from his hands, just in time for him to brace the fall before the others landed on top of him, pressed him clean against the ice, squeezed out whatever air was left in his own lungs. Above them, someone was yelling. Several someones.

A fourth body hit the pile and knocked Kent’s helmet clean off, and a fifth pushed him clean against the ice, the roughened surface cutting into his skin in a way that wouldn’t draw blood but made his throat constrict, and he went limp. Closed his eyes.

Perhaps he could die like this. Providence was a beautiful city, after all. A good place to live. A good place to start afresh, and raise children, and let go.

And then the pressure receded, as one body after the other was removed from the pile. Air returned to Kent’s lungs, sound following just afterwards.

”He coulda injured our goalie - ”

”I’ll knock your last tooth out, you piece of shit - ”

” - try touching me again, fucking _cockstain_ \- ”

”Typical fucking Aces hockey!”

Kent blinked his eyes open, just in time to bite down a sound as someone pulled him up by the back of his jersey, picked him up by his fucking scruff like he was a fucking kitten - 

”ОХ гребаный мудак!”

Mashkov. Kent had figured the man was strong, but being literally lifted was a surprise. Not a bad one, either.

”You liking hit like that so much?? Huh?? I can hit too!”

Oxygen deprivation.

”Come on, Tater Tot … ” someone cut through, and Mashkov let go of Kent’s jersey with a huff. Had it not been for Tady suddenly appearing, Kent would’ve fallen back onto the ice.

”Ugh!! Parson little rat rushing Snowy!” Mashkov’s voice rung out.

”Little ’brat’,” Robinson corrected.

”No! _Rat_! Right word!”

”Dodged a bullet there,” Tady said, letting his hands fall back to his sides once Kent made it clear he could stand on his own. ”He looked ’bout ready to punch your face in, man.”

”Did I score?”

Tady frowned, and there were words on his tongue, but they weren’t the ones emerging, because no one in Las Vegas asked any questions. ”They’re talking it over, I think.”

Kent followed his gaze. The refs were standing together, talking to someone on a phone. A few feet off, Jack was looking at them, too, brows furrowed and a mean set to his jaw.

”No need to worry, cap. We’re winning this.”

Kent nodded, eyes still on the ref.

”You don’t need to go see a medic, do ya? That was a pretty hard - ”

”I’m fine.”

A nod. No further questions.

At last, the phone call ended, and the ref skated to centre ice. Looked out at the crowd for once quiet as it held its breath. Turned on his mic.

”After video review, the call on the ice stands. Aces goal.”

”Told you,” Tady said, voice drowning with the ref’s in the roars around them. Indignation and victory, Kent didn’t care.

On the other side of the ice, Jack’s face had twisted into something that might look little different from his usual expression but which Kent knew was absolute rage. Or as close to that as Jack ever got. Whether it was with him or the decision, Kent didn’t know and couldn’t care any less about.

3-2. No last-second miracles. Not even with Jack _fucking_ Zimmermann.

The hand-shaking was swift and unfeeling, the barest touch of glove against glove before moving on to the next. Kent barely even noticed when he got to Jack and refused to let it show on his face. A touch of glove against glove, and that was that. There was a set to his jaw, a glare towards nothing in particular that Kent recognised from their first year in the Q, back when everything was new and losses weren’t as unexpected or devastating as they became later on.

Neither of them spoke. There was no need to.

Nothing hurt Jack like a loss. Seven fucking years, and Kent still knew that better than anyone.

He’d won. He’d beat Jack at his own fucking game. He’d _won_. He had to.

-/ \\-

_Ghosts of the Q_

_Parson vs. Zimmermann – a miracle on ice, six years later_

_The prince and the pauper – how junior hockey was turned upside down in three years_

_The patented Parson-Zimmermann no-look one-timer EXPLAINED_

_”He’s pretty good at stick-handling,” and other things you WON’T believe Jack Zimmermann has actually said_

-/ \\-

”Jesus fucking Christ.”

Kent’s head snapped up. ”Aidy, there’re kids here!”

The goalie glanced around. ”They ain’t around, Parser. But shit, you gotta see this.”

He shoved his phone forward.

”’A hattrick of hattricks – is Zimmermann the new big thing in hockey … what about it?”

”They’re fucking – throwing you to a side! I’m telling you, they’ve been waiting for this since Zimmermann OD’ed. No one wanted you!” He glanced up. ”No offence.”

”None taken.”

”A fucking golden boy … hockey prince my fucking ass, he ain’t nothing more than a boy with a silver spoon so far up his ass he’s puking gold!”

”That makes no fucking sense.”

”’Miracle of hockey’ - that’s what they fucking called you!”

”You’re gettin’ pretty fucking worked up for something that isn’t aboutcha.”

And had gone down years before he’d even been drafted onto the Aces. When they were a proper team, with a Stanley Cup on the wall and records in _his_ name. Firm standings and a name that rung with something other than laughter.

Aidy ignored him. “How can he be a fucking junkie and still get this much attention? Probably doing coke on the side … Jesus fucking Christ, how come he’s been forgiven this fucking quickly?”

“He _is_ Canadian.”

”You know that ain’t what this is about.”

Underneath his jacket, Kent could feel the hair on his arms rise. ”What’s it about, then? That he’s Bad Bob’s son?”

Aidy threw out his arms in a half-assed shrug. ”Who the fuck knows, man. I’m just saying, there’s something rotten here.”

”He’s good at hockey.” And he was. Even Kent couldn’t say anything else. “I really doubt there’s anything more to it.”

But he was still better. Always had been, even if neither of them had ever dared admit it.

”You can’t protect him forever.”

At his sides, Kent’s hands flinched, but didn’t curl. The same ice, a game won, a slap in Jack’s face. ”I’m not protecting him.”

Not anymore. Not for a long fucking time.

Aidy put up his hands, and perhaps his own had in fact curled up. ”Whatever you say, man. I just think something ain’t right.”

Turning, he walked off in the general direction of the drinks stand. Conversation over, and if Kent took a step forward, he could catch him by the hood of his jacket. Twirl him around. Punch his jaw in before he got a chance to retaliate.

Explaining it to the others would be a bitch. Explaining it to the children skating around, tiny hands in their parents’ safe grip, would be a whole other shithole.

So Kent left. The main rink wasn’t far away, his gear would be there. Enough, at least, to get some shots in. The zamboni driver wouldn’t be happy, but he’d have to fucking deal. It’s what they paid him for.

Of course Jack was revving up the league. Jack was born for the ice, born to beat a puck around like no one else, to beat everyone else into the dust and stand above. If Kent was fire, Jack was ice, melted and nearly evaporated, but never gone. Temperature always came down, and the ice solidified again, hard and unyielding. Unforgiving.

But he wouldn’t beat Kent. He had his father’s name, but Kent had his own. Had _made_ his own. Whatever legacy Jack would leave, it wouldn’t outshine Kent’s.

Perhaps it would outshine his father’s. Perhaps it wouldn’t. After all, when you looked past the surface, past the dark hair and the jaw and the ass, Jack was nothing like his father. Kent had looked past the surface. He’d loved every fucking thing he’d found.

The puck went flying, smashed against the glass of the board, bounced back onto the ice.

Nine fucking years.

Kent let out a breath. Inhaled. Let himself down on the ice with the exhale, let the stick fall aside. Looked up.

Some rinks had windows in the roof. The Aces’ rink wasn’t one of them. Kent had never missed that before, but as he lay with the cold slowly seeping its way through his shirt and into his skin, he did.

”You know I have to call an ambulance if you pass out, right?”

Marina Teterya, voice clear and more identifying than the red mane of hair shining in the artificial lights of the rink. He’d never seen her in the rink before. She looked like a ghost, even paler than usual, a ghost in a vintage coat and high heels longer than dicks Kent had sucked.

”The star player passing out on the rink practising during a family skate isn’t a headline I want to deal with,” she continued. ”You fuckers give me enough shit as it is.”

”I’m not gonna pass out,” Kent said, nearly startling at the sound of his voice. He never spoke when alone in the rink. It sounded wrong. ”I was just resting a bit.”

”Resting my fucking ass. You’re giving yourself hypothermia’s what you are.”

With a smirk, Kent scooped himself onto one arm. ”You could always nurse me back to health. Good practice for when you become a mother.”

Marina cocked an eyebrow. ”I already am one, Parson. Got a seventeen year-old, and you fuckers are still bigger handfuls than he’s ever been.”

From his spot on the ice, far enough away to get away with it, Kent gave her a once-over. Young and beautiful, full lips and full bust and wasp’s waist. There’d probably been more than a couple rookies wringing one out to her over the years. Whatever fountain of youth she and Navid prescribed to, Kent wouldn’t mind a taste.

”Don’t give me that fucking look, Parson, or I _will_ file a sexual harassment report on you,” she ended his train of thought. A second later, a handkerchief, of all fucking things, was handed forward. ”Now dry your face, for fuck’s sake, can’t have you going back out with ice all over. We need pictures for twitter, and I’m expecting you to smile in them.”

”You this hard on your kid, too?”

She smiled, thin but amused. ”When he’s acting unreasonably, yes. But that’s a rarity. I raised him to think. And I also raised him to cry whenever he needed to.”

Skating up, Kent accepted the handkerchief. There were no tears, he knew that, but the ice could give the impression. ”Can’t get away with that in a rink.”

She shrugged. ”Maybe not. But that’s your problem, not mine. Ready to go back out and play captain?”

”Can I say no?”

Another smile, this time with its usual predatory tint. ”No.”

*

## aces (✓)

**2,917** posts **1,5mio** followers **31** following

**Las Vegas Aces**  
Everything’s coming up Aces. #vegaslights  
**lasvegasaces.com**

[image: Kent Parson sipping hot chocolate with Marcus Crawford, both looking cold.]

[image: Jeff Troy landing a single axel.]

[image: Dmitri Popovich and Colin Evans posing with the Aces’ mascot between them.]

[image: Lauren Tady handing over Brett Tady to Emmett Tady while Courtney Tady tugs at her coat.]

[image: Michael Smith pulling a grinning, plump baby on a small ice sled.]

[image: Kent Parson with Rose Smith on his hip, both smiling wide at the camera.]

[image: Brendon Burke and his third wife sipping something that is not wine with Marina Teterya and Dmitri Popovich, her body angled firmly away from him. If you knew what to look for.]

[image: Kit ’Purrs’ Purrson lying on an expensive-looking red pillow, looking as regal as a medieval queen despite the words ’Merry Christmas from the Las Vegas Aces’ written in a swirling font above her head.]

*

” - Brenda said, and I shit you not, ’you just need to plunge it in deeper’ as if that poor woman’s arm could take any more needling!”

”What a bitch,” Kent replied automatically and took some heat off the gravy while his Ma wasn’t looking.

”Bitch is right!” Sarah Parson-Miller continued, lowering her voice for a brief moment before continuing. ”Sometimes you just can’t get the blood out of one arm, and there’s nothing to do but try the other! Not _plunge in deeper_ \- ”

Kent hummed.

” - like some goddamn amateur! I mean, the woman’s been a nurse for longer than you’ve been alive, you’d think she’d know better?”

”Absolutely.”

”The professionalism in nursing’s really gone down these past few years. Every time we get someone new, there’s hope, but they just turn out to not know their right from their left!”

”That sucks.”

”- and us old-timers are left holding up the fort! I don’t know what they’re teaching at nursing school these days, but there’s something missing, I’m tellin’ ya – one second, sweetie – I’m tellin’ ya, they need to up their level or people’re gonna die. Nursing’s a life and death business, y’know - ”

Head barely gracing the top of the counter, Luke stomped his foot on the floor.

”What is it?” Kent whispered.

“I’m hungry!”

“Food’ll be a little while still. Try your Dad, I think I saw him sneaking some carrots earlier.”

Luke scrunched his nose. “I don’t like carrots.”

”Then y’gotta wait for us to finish cooking.”

Glancing at their mother, Luke swung his arms a couple of times before stomping back out.

” - and don’t even get me started on the – where’s he going?”

”Didn’t wanna disturb, I think.”

Sarah Parson-Miller smiled. ”Oh, that’s sweet. Mind the potatoes, wouldja, darling? I gotta check the turkey real quick.”

”Sure thing, Ma.”

*

Jack received the A just after New Year’s, to the surprise of no one following the world of hockey even peripherally.

A fucking travesty, Aidy would say, was Aidy in Kent’s living room. And knew such big words.

On the TV, Georgia Martin (the only fuckable assistant GM in the league) was doing most of the talking, one arm around Jack’s back, his around her shoulders. It had been an easy decision, she said, and Kent didn’t doubt it for a second.

On Jack’s other side, Sebastien St. Martin and Randall Robinson were smiling as well, arms around each other’s and Jack’s shoulders, breaking in with quips of their own whenever Georgia Martin made the mistake of giving them the chance. Jack didn’t say much apart from the usual hockey robot talk he had spewed since leaving his mother’s fucking womb, but he didn’t look as bit-down and paranoid as he had whenever the press had cornered him and Kent in the Q.

They were all relaxed. Like it wasn’t a job they were talking about. Like they weren’t all working and playing for the fucking NHL.

Domestic. It looked fucking domestic.

In his lap, Purrs let out an indignant sound, not quite a hiss but enough for Kent to loosen his hold on her back. With another sound, still not quite a hiss, she jumped onto the floor and walked towards the kitchen. Or the bedroom.

Outside, Las Vegas was shining.

Kent turned off the TV.

-/ \\-

There was no doubt the Providence Falconers were the name of the season. The dark horse, if someone was being nice. The shoo-ins, if they weren’t.

Luck. An expansion team that had finally figured itself out. Good rookies.

Jack Zimmermann.

The puck sailed through the air, hit at an odd angle, and Kent saw it the moment Burlap’s stick came down. It could’ve been lucky, Pops wasn’t ready for a shot from the right, but luck only went so fucking far.

”The fuck’re ya trying to do?” Kent yelled the second the puck bounced back onto the ice. ”Hey, I’m talking to ya!”

Burlap turned with a scowl, eyes anywhere but at Kent.

”What the fuck was that shot supposed to be, huh? You’re supposed to hit the _net_ , not the fucking goalie!”

“Parse - “

”If y’don’t have what it takes, get assigned to the fucking farm team! We can’t fucking carry slackers here, got it?”

”Parson, that’s enough!”

Kent set his jaw. ”Get back to practice, Isaac. Work on that fucking shot.” He looked around. ”The fuck’re the rest of ya staring at? Get your asses back to practice!”

”Parson, over here, please. The rest of you, back to work!”

Please. Kent resisted the urge to scream. Punch Burke in the fucking face.

“You can’t talk to the boys like that.”

Kent squirted some water onto his face. ”Not my fault he’s playing like shit.”

”As if you weren’t last year.”

”I got over it.”

”Sure you did, kid. Look, I couldn’t give less of a shit about what’s going through your head, but you can’t take it out on the rookies. They’re not you, but they’re playing well this year. Nothing good’ll come from you pushing them too hard, trust me. I’ve been doing this longer than you.”

”I’m not - ”

”You keep this up, and someone’s getting an injury.”

”I haven’t - ”

”Oh, shut the fuck up and listen for once, would you?” Burke sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. ”You’re the best we’ve fucking got, and you know it. But you’re also the fucking captain, and you’ve been given a fucking loose line so far, but there’s some responsibility that comes with that.”

Kent huffed. ”What, you gonna try and take the C away from me again?”

”You know the power you have, Parse, don’t even fucking try and tell me you don’t. You don’t decide the training, that’s true, but the other guys look to you. Not because they respect you, because I think you and I both know they don’t - ” Kent snickered. ” - but because they think your training is what’s making you the best in the world, and everyone wants that.”

”My training _is_ what makes me the best in the world.”

The look Burke gave him was beyond pitiful. ”Tell yourself what you need to, Parson. Just dial it down a little. Stop yelling at the rookies. I thought we went over that last year.”

Kent opened his mouth, but forced it closed. Swallowed. Smoothed out his voice. ”I’ll dial it down. Alright? So go focus on your wife or something.”

Something flashed over Burke’s face. Threw him off. ”The fuck d’you mean by that?”

Bullseye.

Kent shrugged. ”Nothing, coach, I’m just saying, young lady like that, she’ll be bored if y’don’t give ’er enough attention. Might wander off to someone else.”

”You know something I don’t, Parson? ’cause if you do, I suggest you tell me - ”

”Fuck no. Just giving ya some advice, one man to another.”

”Go fuck yourself, Parson. And get your ass back on the ice, I don’t have the fucking time to talk to you all day.”

Kent grinned, wide and fake. ”Sure thing, coach.”

”And Parson?”

Almost. ”What’s up, coach?”

”You freak out like this against the Falconers next week … I don’t think I need to tell you how that’ll look.”

You pathetic, fucking _faggot_.

”I’ll dial it down.”

-/ \\-

There were times in Kent’s life where he had wished for time to stop.

Perhaps that was why he liked Vegas so much. A pocket in the middle of the Nevadan desert where time was a thing for other people and a slap in the face as soon as one toe was dipped outside of it. No winter, no spring, no summer, no autumn. A rain season every once in a while, a hockey season and an off-season.

New York was nice in the summer. Even if his apartment didn’t have AC.

Las Vegas was summer year ‘round.

Some days, Kent remembered his first Christmas there, his disbelief that Vegas was even real. A pocket untethered by reality and thus, timeless. A good place to run to. A good place to hide. A good place to live even, if one was being generous.

Kent donated ten thousand dollars a year to a cat shelter around the corner from the rink. Another to a homeless shelter not too far off. A centre for treatment of gambling addiction, because PR loved it, and even Vegas couldn’t ignore the reality that festered within it. He was a generous person.

And he loved Vegas. He did. The timelessness, the heat, the neon lights, the fucking _sand_. Almost seven years, and it had all slipped under his skin, made itself comfortable curled around his bones and in the soft tissue of his organs. Slipped in through his orifices while he slept and burrowed. And he didn’t mind. Not anymore. Not with the beginning of a new contract taking shape – one more million, five more years, another no-trade clause – and the way he could escape reality by staying within its borders.

A paw on the side of his thigh made Kent look down. ”What up, Purrs? Not enjoying the game?”

No answer, except Purrs pushing him again before replacing her paw with her head.

” - another breathtaking goal from Zimmermann. I think he’s going for the hattrick, don’t you?”

He scratched her behind the ear. ”Yeah, me, neither.”

”I don’t think there’s any doubt. And Mashkov’s in on it, just look at that celly!”

”Yeah, they’re not pulling any punches, that’s for sure. Just look at Popovich, he looks absolutely exhausted.”

”Infuriated, I think might be a better word.”

”Oh, for sure. You think the Aces will be pulling him for the last few minutes?”

A crumpled-up tissue hit the TV screen, the commentator’s answer hidden beneath Purrs’ indignant squawk at her pillow’s sudden movement.

”Sorry,” Kent muttered, then loudly blew his nose in another tissue that ended up on Alexei Mashkov’s weirdly attractive face moments later.

On his thigh, Purrs let out a small sound. Kent decided to read it as agreeing.

11.02 PM. To ’Swoops’

_good game_

_youll get revenge next season_

11.04 PM. From ’Swoops’

_Thanks, cap._

_Seems like we just can’t beat them without you._

11.05 PM. To ’Swoops’

_sorry_

_flu doesnt care about hockey_

Turning off his phone, Kent stretched his arms over his head. A couple good nights of sleep and a bit of sweating and he’d be as good as new. His Ma’s recipe, back when he was younger and it hit once a year like clockwork, home three days on his own because she couldn’t take the time off to stay with him. Vitamins and staying warm. Worked as a preventative _and_ a remedy.

The only time it hadn’t, Kent had been eleven years old and dreading an English test. If his Ma had ever found out how he’d hidden the vitamins under tongue and spat them out later, forgotten to wear socks on unheated floors, and walked a couple of times in the rain, she’d never let it show. The flu was going around his class, after all.

It was just bad fucking timing.

Not that there was any such thing as time in Las Vegas. No time, no reality, nothing he had to think about for another night or two. Months, if he played his cards right, the rest of the fucking season, and he’d become a fucking gambler in the past seven years. Sometimes, it even paid off.

Sometimes it didn’t.

The illusion lasted until he stepped out of the city borders again.

And that was life, he supposed. Lost games and games won, the Falconers tearing up the league, more articles than he bothered reading. Purrs waiting on his bed when he came home, morning runs and afternoons with Sue-the-tax-lady. Family skates. Roadies. The late-March rain of New York City tapping against the windows of their hotel.

Time was a thing in New York. Reality was, too.

”Hey, Parser?”

And as much as the city had once been his home, as much as it still somehow was, Kent hated it for it. ”What is it, Scrappy?”

On the other bed, half-sitting, half-slumped, Scraps scrolled through his phone. ”Have you seen Mashkov’s Instagram?”

”Why the fuck would I do that?”

”Uh. Zimmermann’s there. It’s at his college.”

So he was, only just visible on the small screen of Scraps’ phone, badly angled, sitting on what looked like a well with a waving Mashkov leaning against it.

Kent glanced back up. ”I don’t actually care that much about what J- , what Zimmermann does off the ice. Alright?”

Scrappy looked confused. Kent fought down the urge to just shove him aside.

”If you see Mashkov posting something about their strategies, please do let me know,” Kent continued. ”But if it’s just that - ” he waved at Scrappy’s screen. ” - I really couldn’t care less.”

The phone finally left his line of sight. ”Sorry.”

Kent forced a smile. _Dial it down_. ”’s alright, Scraps. And good job on that pass earlier. I think we can make a pretty good play outta that if you can make it a regular thing.”

Something resembling a smile returned to Scrappy’s face, and Kent felt like just the slightest bit less of an asshole. Small victories.

Followed by small defeats.

Five fucking hours. A game, the last before playoffs, a hattrick, five fucking hours.

The first picture was indeed Jack sitting on a well with Mashkov waving at the camera next to him (Zimmboni College! Go wellies!). They both looked comfortable. Happy.

On the next, Mashkov was pointing at a giant blonde man kissing a bottle of jam. It took Kent a couple of moments to recognise him as the guy that had hoisted up the tiny beer pong champion after she thoroughly beat Kent to the ground the year before. The one who had opened the door for him three years prior.

And there she was, in all her glory. Different haircut, Kent noticed, but the smug look on her face paired with sunglasses and a pong ball was the same. Once more, she was being hoisted, this time on one of Mashkov’s giant arms. One arm, and he still barely looked like he was holding anything. In the background, one of the most attractive men Kent had ever seen was laughing at the picture the two made, doing absolutely nothing good to Kent’s heartbeat.

For the first time in almost five months, Kent regretted walking out on Bjørnholt the way he had.

The last photo was of Mashkov as well, this time lying on the gross-ass couch Kent for some reason had had stress dreams about for the entirety of the playoffs the year before. He looked comfortable, though, not at all bothered by the skin infections he was probably acquiring. Leaning on the couch arm was a young man in a Sharks hoodie. A bright smile revealed a fine pair of braces, and Kent shuddered in sympathy.

Still. That guy was kinda hot, too.

Kent scrolled back to the first picture, zoomed in until Jack’s face was in focus. He was smiling, looking as relaxed as could be. Kind of like he had in the first game of the season, when that rowdy group in the stands had caught his attention. College teammates.

Perhaps he really should’ve gone to college.

Before the bitter taste in the back of his throat could spread, Kent scrolled down to Jack’s thighs. Fucking redwood logs. Mashkov wasn’t all bad next to him, either, not when Kent cut his face out of the picture. After a couple moments, he left it back in.

Wouldn’t be the first time he got off to Alexei Mashkov.

Wouldn’t be the last time he got off to Jack. As much as he kept wishing it would. A ghost that refused to leave, and he was feeling more and more like a fucking necrophile.

-/ \\-

”Get out of my fucking net, Parson!”

With a grin, Kent took a miniature step closer to the goal. ”I’m not anywhere near your fucking goal, Wojcik, d’y’need fucking glasses or something?”

”I’ll say it one more time, get out of my fucking net or I swear to fucking God you’ll be carried out of there!”

Kent glanced towards the ice, at the puck still going back and forth, slowly forward. ”I’d like to see ya try, you’re skinnier than I am!”

”Wasn’t fucking talking about me, you think we don’t have enforcers?”

A pass from Bubbles to Carly, now significantly closer. Fucking finally. ”Don’t think y’have anything but!”

”At least we’re getting our goals fair and - “

Another pass back to Bubbles, swift and precise, and without another look at Wojcik, Kent shot forward. He locked eyes with Bubbles for a fraction of a second, enough for the puck to hit his stick after a quick wrist shot, and with half a step around a D-man, another wrist shot, the horn blared.

The look of pure anger in Wojcik’s eyes nearly caused him to stumble. Nearly.

”Fuck you you fucking , and fuck your _fucking_ mother!”

With a grin, Kent took a step back. Out of reach. ”At least we _get_ goals, Chick!”

1-0

The Schooner came for him a split-second after the puck left his stick. It was possible the decision had been made beforehand – get the puck, neutralise the fucker – but only the second option was now left, and the Schooner didn’t slow down, and Kent let out a sound that was most definitely _not_ a squawk as he threw himself to the side. Something hit his shin - a wayward stick, shit happened, nothing to see – but not bad enough that he couldn’t run.

At the side, not quite by the boards but too close, Evie was carrying the puck forwards, glancing around every other second. He wouldn’t keep the puck for long. Never did.

And not this time, either. The puck left his stick with a shot warned seconds in advance, and it was a fucking miracle no Schooner was close enough to pick up on and thwart it. The puck flew across the ice, landed at the edge of Swoops’ stick and was carried around a Schooner before being shot to Scraps.

Attempted to. The Schooners was fast – small, not quite Kent’s size, fast as _fuck_ \- and caught the puck mid-pass, inches from the look of surprise on Scrappy’s face. Misplaced, he’d been playing with Kent for seven years, but done was done, and the puck was with another Schooner. With a quiet swear, Kent turned on his heel and followed the fucker. There was a strategy, and they needed to break it up, play too hard and too fast for the fuckers to organise themselves, but it wasn’t happening.

Catching up, Kent stuck out his stick, only to watch the puck disappear inches from the tip of it and land with a new Schooner – bigger, slower, and just their luck, a fucking straight-shooter.

Between the pipes, Pops went down.

Above them, a horn blared.

If anyone could appreciate the beauty of a well-executed one-timer, it was Kent.

1-1

Just off centre ice, twenty seconds before the end of second period, a Schooner stumbled. A fatal mistake, and Bubbles was on him before he could regain balance, checking a second out of the way giving Kent the split-second opportunity to skate between them and shoot the puck towards the other goal. Swoops was there somewhere, He’d catch it.

And Kent ran.

In the corners of his eye, turquoise and navy was moving in and out, but he paid it no mind. Not yet.

Near the net, Swoops and a Schooner were fighting, sticks clashing and mixing with the yells of the players and the roar of the crowd. Someone was beating on the glass just behind them, all but frothing at the mouth.

The puck would come loose within seconds. Also heading there were two Schooners – three, the third was too far away – and Carly, Evie too far away to be of use. Two against two, and Carly could take one out with ease. The second, Kent would need to get sneaky with. If he got in at the right angle - 

Between one step and the next, navy and turquoise reappeared in Kent’s vision, and he dove to the side on instinct, swift, a step and a turn and pain in his shoulder where the fucker still managed to hit. If he made a sound – and he probably did, and he possibly didn’t – it drowned in the rest of the noise on the ice, always did, and in the puck finally coming loose. Diving out, Swoops’ stick didn’t even come close, and the Schooner previously by Kent’s side caught it, gone before he could as much as blink.

There was never time to blink.

By the goal, Lutz and Tady were drawing in, and Pops was more than ready to fight, and everything in Kent’s body screamed for him to set after. Do his part. Keep the motherfuckers from scoring if it cost him his other shoulder.

Instead, he skated towards the bench, made a half-hearted gesture at Burke with his good arm before jumping over the divider at the same time as Burlap.

”What happened?”

”Motherfucker fucked up my shoulder.”

A glance. ”Get a medic to look at it.”

And back at the game. Where Pops had indeed saved the puck, and the offence was the Aces’.

”Oof, yeah, that isn’t good,” the medic grimaced as soon as Kent’s jersey and underarmour had been pushed to the side.

”How bad?”

”I’d say … a lot.”

A finger came down on the already red and swollen spot, pulling an entirely undignified yelp from between Kent’s lips.

”Am I coming back to the game?”

Frowning, the medic hummed. Took another look at the bruise. “Nope.”

Popped p and everything.

Kent wasn’t sure what he’d expected. ”Awesome.”

”You’re gonna need some bandages on that.”

”Then fucking do it!”

1-2

With a step to the side, Bubbles passed the puck to Swoops who shot forward before the Schooners could even realise what had happened. Moments later, the puck went to Tady, who sent it towards Carly, who returned to Swoops. Back and forth and all around. Kent could almost see the Schooners’ brains frying.

Two more passes, a couple of D-men not knowing where to look, and the puck went in. Clean and efficient, fucking professional, fucking _beautiful_ \- 

Purrs let out an indignant sound and steadied herself on her front legs where she had all but fallen off the couch.

”Sorry, baby, sorry - no, don’t go, I promise I won’t – Purrs!”

Kent sighed, rubbed the back of his slightly stiff neck with his good hand and readjusted the ice pack on his shoulder. Poor kitty.

On the TV, the celly had ended, the puck dropped, chaos begun anew.

To think there were people who thought the Aces were lost without him.

They did just fine without him.

2-2

Turning off the TV left him sitting in darkness save for the neon shining from outside. The city that never slept.

Kent probably should.

2-3

Kent’s thighs were burning. In front of him, the Seattle Schooners’ goal came ever nearer.

As did the Schooners themselves.

Gritting his teeth, Kent forced his legs to move quicker, faster, anything that might give him a better shot. Before it became too late. Beneath his underarmour and half an inch of bandages, his shoulder had been aching for the entirety of the third period. A bit of second period, too, but no one needed to know that. Even if they’d asked.

Fifteen feet from the goal, a Schooner finally caught up and cut Kent off from the goal. Before he could stick out his stick – a fight Kent wasn’t going to win – the puck was sent to the side, towards the nearest black blur, and Kent stepped back. Swore as a Schooner caught Swoops’ attack after only a couple of feet, sticks clacking and _far_ too close to the boards.

With the clock ticking down behind him, Kent set towards them. It would be seconds, seconds neither team had, and he got halfway there when the Schooner won out and passed to a teammate.

Too slow.

An angry look went his way as he turned with the puck firmly in his hold, but whatever hit might come would be too late. Had to be.

Almost immediately, he slid to a stop. A brief second, too many D-men.

Last he had looked, there was a minute left on the clock. He didn’t have a fucking choice.

The puck slid across the ice to Bubbles’ stick where it was passed back as soon as the Schooners’ attention had been diverted. Without stopping, Kent passed the puck on to Swoops who took it around the goal with two Schooners and the goalie’s eyes following him closely. On the other side, a third was standing ready, but so was Kent.

When Swoops finally shot, just before barging into the waiting Schooner’s arms and sending them both to the ice, Kent caught the puck.

Hockey was a game played in fractions of seconds. Seven years – fourteen – and Kent had never been caught.

The goalie’s eyes widened, in fear or anger, Kent didn’t know, but there was little he could do as Kent smashed into him, sending them both sprawling onto the ice. The goal moved as well, a horrible sound just beneath the roar of the crowd and the searing pain in Kent’s shoulder, but thankfully didn’t fall onto them.

A whistle blew, startling the goalie long enough for Kent to ignore the pain and push him up, get away before the situation had a chance to get ugly.

”You okay?”

Kent swallowed, forced his free hand away from his shoulder. ”I’m fine.”

Evans nodded. ”Did it go in?”

“I don’t know.”

Between the out-of-place pipes, the goalie was helped up by a teammate with another angry glare at Kent and a couple of words to the ref. A few more to a couple more Schooners immediately glancing his way.

Whatever happened, Kent should probably get off the ice.

”Didja see if it went in?” he asked Swoops by the boards, and as soon as the game started back up, he’d jump.

A grim face met his. ”I couldn’t see. But I don’t think so.”

Fifteen seconds left on the clock.

After what felt like an eternity, a ref skated onto centre ice. Above them, the speaker system rattled.

”After video review, it is determined, no goal!”

”Fuck!” someone yelled. It took Kent a couple of seconds to realise it was him.

4-2

The Las Vegas were officially knocked out of the playoffs. In the first fucking round. For the second year in a row.

And Kent’s stick hit the floor.

-/ \\-

”All I’m saying is, I really don’t think anyone expected this from Jack Zimmermann. Maybe six or seven years ago, but not now.”

”I don’t know why you’re so surprised, this is Bad Bob’s son we’re talking about. We all watched him play in Juniors, and if any of you had bothered to watch one of his college games, you would have known that talent didn’t just disappear.”

”I’m not saying his talent disappeared after – after the draft, I’m just saying he didn’t follow up on the expectations there had been for him. Back then. And so, some of us thought it might be best not to pick those back up once he entered the NHL.”

”So, what, he was a disappointment?”

”You’re putting words in my mouth. I’m just saying, he was under a lot of pressure during his junior days, he and Parson both, but especially Zimmermann, being Bad Bob’s kid, and that pressure probably wasn’t good for him. Picking it back up now that he’s in the public eye again just doesn’t sit well with me.”

”May I remind you all, we don’t actually know what happened the night before the 2009 draft. And it’s not relevant to this discussion. We’re talking about the Providence Falconers making the Stanley Cup finals, not Jack Zimmermann’s past.”

”And there _are_ in fact other guys on the Falcs. They’re not a one-man show.”

”It’s a close call, though.”

”Not if you watch closely. Can we – can we get some clips from their last game, in the second period when Mashkov scored their third goal – yes, that one, thank you – Zimmermann wasn’t on the ice, then, if you need to hear his name to focus, but we can clearly see Mashkov’s strategy - “

”Are you calling us biased?”

” - paying off. The – I’m not calling you anything, I’m just trying to draw your attention to the other players on that team. You can really see how much Mashkov’s evolved - ”

Kent took another long swig of whiskey. He’d just been trying to watch the game, the western conference final? And there those motherfuckers had suddenly been, spewing shit and theories and … shit.

Just out of sight, Purrs started harking. After a minute or two, a perfectly round, moist hairball hit the floor.

”You’re cleanin’ that up y’rself, right?”

She walked off, jumping a little out of her way as Kent’s phone let out a ping.

[Swoops] Does anyone want to watch the first game of the Finals together?

”Bitch,” Kent muttered, threw his head back again.

” - Nashville Predators. They played some good games, but there was just nothing to do.”

”It would’ve been interesting to see them against the Falconers, though. The Schooners bring a completely different game.”

”And that’s what got them the victory!”

[Bubbles] sounds awesome!

[Carly] sure where?

The empty bottle joined the other on the floor.

[Parse] srue

*

Randall Robinson passed the puck with little fanfare before stepping to the side to avoid a Schooners enforcer. Smart move, Kent thought. Motherfucker’s fuck up his fucking shoulder.

Checking another to the side, Alexei Mashkov kept the puck going for a few more seconds, just long enough for the goalie to go down, then sent it straight to his right to Jack Zimmermann’s waiting stick and dug in his heel. There was no need for him anymore, even if the Schooners hadn’t realised it yet.

And quite right, moments later, the puck was in the net. One second at Zimmermann’s stick, the next buried deep above the goalie’s shoulder. Mid-skate. Didn’t even have to stop to aim.

”Shit, fucking look at that!”

Jack _fucking_ Zimmermann.

Kent huffed. Hid the sound in another sip of his drink. As if he hadn’t used that play continually in the Q.

” - and this is a promise, people, if the Falconers aren’t standing with the Stanley Cup in two weeks, I will eat this hat!”

Laughter rung out in the studio, echoed in the bar.

”Fucker said the same fucking thing in 2010,” Tady muttered.

Brownie frowned. ”He did?”

Tady nodded. ”If Parse got the Cup, the Calder, and the Art Ross all in his rookie year, Barry’d eat his fucking hat. It’s on Youtube.”

”And he didn’t?”

”Nope.”

”Why not?”

”’cause my dad’s not Bad Bob fucking Zimmermann,” Kent said.

Pops swore loudly in Russian, almost overpowering Bubbles’ string of giggles.

”Motherfucker,” Carly said, earned himself a few sounds of agreement and a new drink.

On the screen, the Schooners scored their second goal.

Third.

Fourth.

When third period began, it was clear that the Falconers were pigs in a slaughterhouse. Still, they beat their sticks against the boards, stuck together through the massacre.

”We should do this again,” Scraps said.

Not even Jack Zimmermann was an insurance of victory after all. When the camera zoomed in on his face – because of fucking course it did – it was clear he knew it as well.

Kent took another large gulp of his drink. ”Sounds good, Scrappy. Same bar?”

*

They lost the second game as well. Kent almost felt sorry for the goalie. A zero-something loss always hurt.

*

The sound of Jack Zimmermann’s fist colliding with a Schooner’s nose echoed through the bar. Around Kent, a few whistles and groans of sympathy could be heard, but he kept his eyes forward. On the rampage.

Major penalty. Of course. Fourth for the Falconers that game. Seventh in total.

However much the Falcs had been hyped – had hyped _themselves_ \- panic was beginning to set in. Two losses and a third on the horizon did that.

In the five minutes, the camera panned by the penalty box four times, each time showing a Jack looking more like a sullen teenager sent to his room than a professional hockey player. It was almost enough for a smile to tug at Kent’s upper lip. Almost.

Finally, the Schooners’ power play ended, and Jack Zimmermann hit the ground running, ice in his eyes and those eyes set on the goal.

Fifteen seconds later, the horn blew.

”Holy shit,” Scraps whispered.

”Fucking show-off,” Bubbles muttered.

”Bad Jack Zimmermann,” Carly grinned. ”Really taking after his Daddy, that one.”

Kent took a sip of his drink, bright pink and a mistake in everything but taste.

”Falcs were fucking lucky,” Carly snickered. ”Getting a junkie that plays so well. All we got was Sonny!”

Ignoring whatever was tightening in the pit of his stomach, Kent kicked him beneath the bar table. ”People can hear you, Carly. We don’t need a PR nightmare.”

”Come on, Parser - ”

”No. Everyone has phones. One day you’ll be caught on record, and I’m not covering your ass to Marina.”

With another sip of his drink, Kent returned his attention to the screens, ignored whatever Carly muttered under his breath next to him.

On the screen, the puck had made it past the Schooners’ goal line again. The camera caught the celly beautifully, Jack and Mashkov grinning at each other like excited children separated only by glass from an angry horde of Schooners fans.

It had been a while since Kent had seen Jack smile like that.

He downed his drink.

*

”No one treat guy like that!” Pops stewed on their way through the Las Vegas streets. ”He do nothing wrong!”

”He did check that other guy,” Swoops said.

”Nothing wrong!” Pops repeated, loud enough for a couple of tourists to break into a large circle around them. Kent gave them a look he hoped was apologetic.

”I hope he’ll be alright,” Scraps said.

The group came to a halt, all staring back at him.

”He’s injured! Injuries fucking suck.”

”They do.” Kent patted him on the back. ”I’m sure he’ll be fine, though. Mashkov’s a tough son of a bitch. He’ll be beating that Schooner to borscht next season.”

Pops let out something in loud Russian that sounded equally agreeing and threatening. The fists didn’t help.

”Calm down, you still got us thrown out of that bar,” Bubbles said.

”Yeah, that poor bottle of scotch didn’t deserve that,” Tady agreed.

*

”We need more traditions,” Smitty said in the middle of the third period of game five as he downed his third beer of the night. ”This is – this is fun.”

”Kids gotten your tolerance down that much?” Carly asked, slapping him a couple times on the back. A dribble left Smitty’s lips and landed on his shirt.

”Come on, man, my wife’s gonna kill me!”

Carly didn’t hear him over his own laughter.

”If your wife can forgive your face, she can deal with a stain,” Kent said.

”Fuck you, Parse.”

Kent raised his glass. ”Cheers to you, too, Smith.”

Behind them, Jack was being torn away from a smirking Schooner by an already angry ref. If Kent wasn’t mistaken, it was the same guy that had pushed Mashkov down in game four.

At least Mashkov was well enough to attend the game. Hug his teammates in victory afterwards. Or maybe just Jack.

Pops elbowed him. ”Hey, man cheating on you.”

Kent rolled his eyes, ignored the snickers around them and the adrenaline shooting up his spine. ”As if Mashkov’s a better lay than me.”

”Of course is better. Is Russian.”

”He’s probably fucking _huge_ ,” Bubbles said.

”How does it work if they’re both circumcised?” Scraps asked.

On the other side of the bar, a couple of heads turned. Kent wanted to bang his own against the table. ”I am so sorry. Please cut him off.” He paused. ”Actually, probably best if you cut us all off.”

The bartender raised one perfect, red eyebrow before walking off, hips swinging tantalisingly from side to side.

Someone whistled.

Kent sighed. ”We’re not getting thrown out again!”

*

They were thrown out again. Turned out bars didn’t like drunken sailor songs, especially not when sung by a dozen or so shit-faced hockey players that also insisted on dancing. The chairs were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t Kent’s fault.

*

Game six was a horror movie. Constant battles, barely any penalties, shots that just so missed the goal, and the circle would start again.

”Is it bad for me to say I’m glad we’re not in the finals?” Swoops asked.

”Yes, you fucking traitor!” Carly replied, eyes not leaving the screen.

A Falcs attack was in the making, for who the fuck knew what time. The clock was ticking down, one fateful second at a time, and still there were Schooners in his way.

There was no way he could make it. No _fucking_ way.

”Holy fucking shit, did you guys see that??”

Pops swore loudly.

Kent didn’t need a dictionary. Instead, he downed the rest of his vodka. More or less the same thing.

Three losses, three wins. He’d be fucking damned.

*

”I’m telling you, the Falconers are getting that cup.”

”Yeah, and I’m Jack Zimmermann’s fairy godmother.”

”I’m serious, Carly! There’s no fucking way they’re losing.”

”They ’ve been tied the entire fucking game – they barely even made it to game seven! There’s no fucking way they can win!”

”Wanna bet?”

”You’re fucking on, Smith.”

Kent raised an eyebrow. Scrappy smiled back. Last game nerves. Even if second-hand.

On the screens lining the walls of the bar, Jack was in the Schooners’ defensive zone again, like he’d been for what felt like the entire fucking match. If he wasn’t in the penalty box, he was attacking. It was a good strategy, Kent had to admit. Jack was good at playing offence. And with the third period ticking closer and closer to an end, the score tied, offence was everything attention needed to be on.

In front of their goal, closer and closer to Jack, what looked like the entire Schooners team had assembled. Some Falconers, too, more in the way than in any way helping. He’d need to be fast to get the puck past. Kent would’ve been able to do it. Jack … 

Stopped. For a second. Scoured the wall in front of him. It was a perfect moment, barely visible when you weren’t in the middle of it, a moment of absolutely stillness.

Kent could taste it on his teeth.

The camera didn’t pick up Jack’s face, too far away and the wrong angle, but he could imagine the look. He always was so easily scared, always looked ready to break at any second when put under pressure. Sometimes invisible, but the cracks had grown. And grown. And grown.

And perhaps they had healed, because in a fraction of a second, the camera aligned, and the look on his face was one Kent couldn’t recognise. For another fraction, he could barely recognise Jack at all.

The puck left his stick, and around him – in the bar, where he was, not on the _fucking_ ice – his teammates held their breath. Absent-mindedly, he realised his own glass had come to a still halfway on its way to his mouth.

Time imploded.

The horn blew.

”Well, fuck me in the fuckin’ ass,” Carly said.

Kent raised his glass the last way to his mouth, downing its contents. It burned the back of his throat, more so than it had earlier in the evening, and perhaps he was coming down with a cold. A summer cold in Las Vegas.

Weirder things had happened.

On the screens, the puck dropped again, and the Schooners were desperate. A shot to the side, far more checks than Burke would’ve allowed, all just on the right side of legal. Most directed at Jack _fucking_ Zimmermann, because another goal would doom them.

It was too much defence. Had Kent been in charge – had he been on the team playing the seventh game of the Stanley Cup final – they wouldn’t have pulled their goalie, but Evie would’ve been put in, young and strong and a D-man with forward experience, and they would’ve gotten that goal. Bit down in the Falconers’ softest flesh and pulled them into overtime with blood and sinew and exhaustion between their teeth. Played as if it was Kent’s first season again, and nothing mattered but the win.

There was something about a vestal team tasting the pre-cum of glory that defied the laws of reality. He knew that better than anyone.

On the screens, two and a half thousand miles away, untouchable, the Schooners went in for one last attack. Swift and brutal, futile and thwarted. Between the pipes, the goalie grinned, the D-men glanced towards one another, the Schooners hid their faces, and the clock hit zero.

Another one for the history books and wikipedia pages.

”You owe me fifty,” Smitty said.

”Oh, come _on_!”

An argument started up, but Kent tuned it out, lifted his beer to his mouth and watched the screens instead. The Falconers filling up ice, blue and white and broken and victorious, smiling and hugging like almost a hundred teams before them. Like Kent had twice. And would again.

”I can almost feel it,” Scraps said from next to him.

Kent looked away. ”Feel what?”

”The winning. You know, the Cup. I miss it.”

”We all do.”

”We’ll get it next year.”

”Sure will, Scraps.”

Mashkov had limped onto the ice, too, joining the celebrations as much as his knee allowed him. He didn’t look to be in pain. No one ever did after the finals.

Joining him was a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a face Kent still couldn’t quite shake from his dreams. The camera immediately zoomed in, as it always did when Bad Bob fucking Zimmermann did anything. There were no microphones around, but the two laughed after a brief moment, and then Mashkov was whisked away by one of the Falconer rookies.

Injured or not, he’d be absolutely shit-faced before midnight.

And the picture shifted, and Jack Zimmermann was lifting the Cup, the first to hold it, looking every bit as flushed and happy as he had raising the President’s Cup or the Memorial Cup. Except more, and Kent looked away.

He’d dreamt of standing next to him with those Cups. And it had come true. He’d reams of standing next to him with the Cup they’d now both held, too, but that – it would’ve been the ultimate victory, the ultimate fuck you, two queer hockey players winning the grandest proof of talent and worth in the league that refused to acknowledge their existence.

Kent took another sip of his drink. The last, he distantly noticed. It had been a childhood dream, nothing more. A wish like so many others, and one of many that had never come true. That was life. Still, the ache was there, as he imagined it always fucking would, even if anger had laced its way through and drowned out the fear and infatuation that had once been in its stead.

”Shit, hoist it right up,” Carly said.

”Hah … look, he just realised how heavy it is.” There was a smile in Swoops’ voice, as if he hadn’t made the exact same mistake his rookie year when he had hoisted up the Cup right next to Kent.

He almost laughed. Both Canadian, and yet there were no two more different people on the planet.

”Man … “ Had Kent had more alcohol left, he would’ve downed it. He could buy more. He didn’t. ”Back when we won. Oh god. I do not remember the next six or seven hours.” Carly took another beer break. ”You ever go blackout without falling asleep? Suddenly the sun is up and you’re just right there?? It was like locker room and then it was morning like no time or anything. Shit.”

”That’s a shame, eh? You’re supposed to remember it.”

”Fuck you, Troy, I remember everything.”

”You just said – literally, you just - ”

”Hey Carl, you even get a shift in the cup game?” Smitty asked from down the bar, and laughter roared in the wake of his words.

”Fuck you, boys.”

A couple of tables down, a group of men in blue sent them a dirty look. Kent reminded himself to get out of there before any kind of brawl could start.

”Uhhh, hey, Parser. You see this?”

At his side, Scraps pushed a phone across the counter, screen turned Kent’s way. He tried not to roll his eyes. ”It’s on the screens, Scraps.”

”Naw, look. It’s all over social … ”

There were more words, or perhaps there weren’t. Were they there, they were sucked into a vacuum along with all other sounds, smells, sights, everything but the phone now in his hands, and perhaps he was having a heart attack. Something that would explain the tightening in his chest, the ringing in his ears, the way he couldn’t fucking _breathe_ \- 

On the screen, the video repeated itself, and perhaps that was a trick of his mind, too, the last sights in his eyes repeating itself before his brain caught up to his heart’s refusal to beat. The fact that he had already died and was now lying prone on the floor, slumped in an undignified heap, and perhaps alcohol poisoning wasn’t too far off. But the video repeated itself, again and again and again, like a nightmare that refused to end no matter how hard he pinched himself.

Jack – undeniably Jack – beautiful and flushed, in his Falconer’s gear, sans helmet, lifting a small blonde man up and kissing him. Square on the mouth, on centre ice, as if no one was watching and the ice was a world that was theirs and theirs alone.

The whole world was watching.

They just didn’t care.

Sound returned like a freight train, an avalanche of noise washing over him, burying, _suffocating_ -

” … ooooh, so he’s gay or whatever? Jesus Christ. You know, why can’t Zimmermann do anything fuckin’ regular.”

It was the same boy as at that party, Kent realised. The one that had hung onto Jack and his every word. The one he had taken a selfie with. The one Jack had wanted to take a selfie with.

”Come on, Carl … ” Swoops tried half-heartedly, but it was no use. Never was.

”Pft, relax! Did I say something wrong?” Kent didn’t look, _couldn’t_ look, but Carly was smiling. Had to be. ”I’m just saying, there’s always something _with_ him. Prolly why it took him so long to figure out the league … ” A snap of fingers. Had Kent not been in the league for seven years, he would’ve jumped in his seat. ”Oh! Oh, bet he’d real excited ’bout that parade, eh?” He laughed, loud and obnoxious. The sound cut through Kent’s ears like glass. Around him, other Aces joined in, tearing the wound ever deeper.

On the screen, Jack was still kissing the boy – the man – that wasn’t Kent, over and over and over again, each time like he was making the decision anew and invariably settling on _yes_. Like it was barely a question at all.

”Go back to your glory days talk, Carly.”

”Right. Glory days … ”

He was smiling, Kent noticed. Smiling into the kiss, like he couldn’t be happier than he was at that moment, like he was bursting with it. And it was the boy in his arms that brought it on. Not the Cup, or maybe a little, not the rookie year in the NHL behind him, but the boy, whoever the _fuck_ he was supposed to be. The boy that wasn’t Kent.

The boy Kent hadn’t been in years.

The boy that Kent was never going to have been.

”Parse?”

The phone hit the counter with maybe a little more force than necessary, and hid it in his trademark smirk, the one he’d practised in the mirror since he was fifteen and known with a clarity that almost made him cry that he was going to need it. ”What is it, Scraps?”

Except he hadn’t cried, not back then, either, and the facade stayed. Done its job.

“I was just gonna ask if I could have my phone back, but - “ but the phone was already in his hands, and he shrugged, and Kent shrugged, too. Raised his glass, blissfully and horribly empty.

Steady voice and steady hands. ”Who wants another round?”

”Make it a double, Parse, we fucking need it after that stunt!”

“Sure do,” Kent echoed, glanced at the bartender, didn’t touch the new glasses placed on the counter. Didn’t think about the burn in his throat, or the way something that had previously clenched and coiled itself up in his stomach now felt broken, or the way Jack had rested his forehead against the boy’s and looked more at peace than he had ever seen.

Around him, the Aces were halfway through his round, and he slid the money across the counter with shaking hands, nodded at the bartender instead of speaking. Slid out of his seat as smoothly and inconspicuously as possible.

”What, leaving already?”

”Come on, Parser you can’t leave _now_!”

And never enough. The smirk slid back in place, chiselled into his face as was it stone, and perhaps it was. ”Sorry, Purrs probably misses me. And y’know I can’t do too long without ’er.”

Someone booed. Kent didn’t turn to see who.

”Is it your shoulder?” Scraps asked quietly.

”Yeah,” Kent breathed. ”Yeah, it’s my shoulder.”

A hand touched his shoulder, the other one, squeezed for a second, and Kent left before he could do anything embarrassing. Shoved his hands into his pockets and gasped as the night air hit his skin. Cold, for once.

It would rain soon.

He hadn’t driven, not with the amount of alcohol that had slowly risen by every game and the mistake of a year and a half ago in the back of his mind. A lifetime ago, and perhaps he really was dead now. A ghost in the streets, surrounded by life.

All around, in best Vegas style, music was booming out in variations of styles and volumes along the Strip, people walking in its rhythm. Never a still moment.

Las Vegas was a good place to live, a lonely place to die, and he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

It wasn’t a long walk, barely half a mile, and he wasn’t recognised once. Never was on the streets of Vegas, and that wouldn’t have been the case if he’d been drafted second and stayed in Montréal. Or if he’d been traded and gone … somewhere else. New York. Washington. Boston.

Providence.

In the lobby, Bill looked up and gave him a quiet greeting. Even doormen were exhausted beyond midnight, and Kent nodded back. The only bachelor in the building, not the only one to make it home at weird times of day, but the only one to do it regularly.

As it always had been in the six years he’d lived there, the elevator was waiting on the floor he needed it to be. As if by magic. Cup magic.

Kent took the stairs.

The smell wasn’t very nice, but growing up in a run-down building in New York, that sort of thing had never bothered Kent. Almost felt like home. Or something pretending to be a home.

By the fifth floor, his thighs started to ache, a dull, comfortable ache that never quite went away when you played hockey. A memory of his childhood, youth, and adult life all at once, only growing as he kept going, one step at a time.

One step at a time.

It took a deep breath and two tries before he managed to unlock his door with hands shaking more than they had at the bar. Perhaps he should’ve had that new drink.

The apartment was dark, the large living room lit up only by the lights of the unending Vegas night through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It smelled like home. Or something pretending to be a home.

Gym laundry, hockey gear, and expensive cologne. Books and medication he wasn’t supposed to know about. Youth.

All gone now. As if it had never been there at all.

As if it had never been a home at all.

The serenity of the apartment broke, became tainted by the sound of heavy breathing and wet noises that didn’t sound entirely human. It took Kent a couple of seconds to realise they were coming from him. The door shut behind him with a soft click as he leaned back against it and moved down until he was sitting on the ground with his legs drawn up to his chin.

He hadn’t cried since that night at a teammate’s house with Jack’s head in his lap. While they’d waited for an ambulance to show up. Together. Alone. All while praying it was all some horrible, horrible dream from which he would soon wake up. And knowing that it wasn’t.

Something inside of his chest burst, tore its way up his throat as a sob, spilled like a glass knocked over. Without giving him a single chance to defend himself, more followed, tore him apart and tore their way out, ruined what was left to ruin.

He should’ve known. Something, he should’ve known something.

He hadn’t been given a single warning.

He had loved him. They had loved _each other_. He knew they had. And that had to count for something, if not – he could’ve warned him.

It had mattered jackshit. In the end.

Because it was the end. Curtain call, the final bow, last rose left on stage.

Over.

For him, too, if he wasn’t careful, and he’d always been careful – he’d been the one cleaning up Jack’s messes, salvaged their reputations, done everything he could to keep them both in the world in which they didn’t belong but belonged more than anyone.

Jack had bled out, but the blood had soaked Kent to the bone.

Another sob tore through his body, threatened to rip him in half, and he almost wished it would.

Ice and fire didn’t mix well. He should’ve realised that earlier. He was fire, and Jack was ice, and they’d flared up together, left only ashes in their wakes and walked away with burns and frostbites. Burns that had healed and become scar tissue, and frostbites that he’d picked at and picked at and picked at until -

Something warm nudged at one of his hands. When he didn’t respond, she nudged him again.

”Hey, girl,” Kent whispered. His throat hurt. ”Didja miss me?”

With a small noise, Purrs rested her front paws on his thigh, and Kent stretched out his legs, allowed her to jump onto his lap before hugging her tightly to his chest and burying his face in her fur.

”You know I love ya, right?”

She meowed. He took that as a yes.

They sat like that together for a while, in the dark and the silence and allowed tears to wet Purrs’ fur once more and finally stop. Wiping his face in a sleeve, Kent pushed Purrs back onto the floor.

It was a short walk to the kitchen. A glass already stood on the counter, a forgotten piece of the afternoon. Kent grabbed it carefully, turned on the tap with his other hand. The sound of the water was all-encompassing, a tsunami in a world previously taciturn.

He drank shakily, breathed in deeply.

There would be questions. The press would have a field day, starting with Jack, but they’d move on to Kent eventually. Dig up old rumours. Pictures. Interviews with junior teammates that had always felt something was a little off but hadn’t dared say it. Bad Bob Zimmermann’s kid, after all. Kent _fucking_ Parson.

Yes, the questions would come. And Jack would be prepared. Had to be. Jack always had a plan, couldn’t even fucking go outside without one. That kiss had to have been in the making for months, meticulously discussed and drawn out by PR experts and a front office that prided itself in being more progressive than any other NHL team. Jack wouldn’t just have kissed a boy on a whim. Even if he was in love with him - 

\- and he was. The realisation had flowed from Kent’s head into the tips of his toes and fingers, had filled up his entire body until he was about to burst into a mess of blood and intestines and gore on the floor. Jack was in love with a man, so in love he didn’t fucking _care_ -

The glass hit the wall, splintered into hundreds of pieces with a loud crash drowned out by a scream that Kent only realised came from him when he ran out of air. He drew in another shaky breath.

Screamed.

His fist connected with the table top counter, sent waves of pain up through his body, anew with every hit until every bone in his body was aching.

Something broke, a plate he’d forgotten, splintered under Kent’s fist, and he clutched it to his chest, felt sticky heat soak the fabric. With a sway of his non-injured hand, the remains of the plate hit the floor, followed by himself moments later as his knees gave out.

The kitchen floor was cold against his cheek, seeped through the cotton of his shirt through his skin and bones where it finally settled.

Kent didn’t mind the cold. Wouldn’t have made it far in a hockey rink if he did. The cold was where he lived, where he thrived, where nothing mattered but what he could push his body to do. He was Kent fucking Parson, and he was a pyre burning in the midst of winter, fighting the falling snow that threatened to put him out.

Darkness would fall eventually, he knew.

And so, for once, he let it.

-/ \\-

The first thing he felt was pain. In his hand, in his back, in his arm, but more than anything in his head. For a century, he kept still, waited for the pain to go away. When it didn’t, he spent another blinking his eyes open, ignoring the bolts of pain shooting through his very being at the brief onslaughts of light.

After a millennium, Kent Parson remembered his own name.

The second thing Kent felt was something warm pressing against his stomach. He looked down, winced at the kink in his neck, let out a shaky breath at the sight of Purrs curled against him, her entire body falling and rising evenly. Resting a hand on her belly, he could feel her heartbeat, a steady rhythm in par with her breathing.

He would’ve cried, had any tears been left inside of him.

The third thing Kent felt was a dull ache in the back of his head, followed by an image from the night before. He pushed it down before it could resurface completely. Looked up. Almost didn’t recognise the living room. He’d never seen it from the floor before. Through the windows, the sun was shining, making every speck of dust flying around in the air visible.

It took another few centuries, a renaissance, before he pulled himself from the position he’d fallen asleep in and stood up, careful as not to wake Purrs. Futile, as the roar of the coffee machine a moment later did. She didn’t seem to mind, just stretched out her body on the floor before strolling over to where he stood leaning against the counter. Even through his trousers, she was warm. He leaned down to scratch her ear.

”Sorry for waking ya,” he whispered, voice croaking like ice breaking. She meowed and pressed herself closer to his leg. ”I’m sorry if I scared ya yesterday. Didn’t mean to yell that much.”

No response. Instead, she walked over to her bowl and sat down in front of it, looking every bit as expectant as the princess she was.

The corner of Kent’s mouth ticked upward.

She ate with fervour, butt and tail sticking up, and he smiled. Drank his coffee.

Some things were still right in the world. Some things hadn’t changed.

On the counter, his phone started ringing, and Kent put down his mug, considered letting it ring out. Answered.

”Sheesh, you sound like shit, Parson,” the personal trainer of the Las Vegas Aces said. Dave Cohen, Kent remembered. ”Rough night?”

”Y’know me,” Kent smirked, even if no one could see him. He cleared his throat, as subtly as possible. ”The only thing partying harder than a Cup win is a Cup loss.”

Dave laughed. ”You still on for our session this afternoon?”

”Yeah, of course. I’ve been having some trouble with my knee, too, actually. Recently. Old injury acting up, I think.”

On the floor, Purrs finished her meal and left for the couch, curled up on a pillow and began licking her paw. In the morning light, her collar shone.

”We’ll take a look at that, too, then. Old injuries never really go away, I’m afraid.”

”No,” Kent echoed. ”They don’t.”


	11. 2016/17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kent realises what he found along the way, makes peace with the past, and moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is it.
> 
> I'm sorry it took three weeks. It wasn't meant to, I swear, I just opened up the document and realised 'this ending doesn't fit the story I've written'. There's been so many changes through this third and final draft, so many amazing thoughts and feedback I've been given and have incorporated, that the story ended up changing quite a bit. In the end, until last week, I had a chapter almost twice the size of a usual one. It's been cut down a bit, and I'll be posting some cut scenes and other fun stuff right after this, but the final result is here.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has followed this story, and those who have left kudos and comments especially. It's been such a joy <3
> 
> Warnings: feelings, sex, violence, bigoted hockey players, friendship, and an incident that is in no way inspired by events that took place in a Danish hockey league last year. Whatsoever. Nuh-uh.
> 
> This chapter had been brought to you by 'Burn Bright' by My Chemical Romance and 'Video Game' by Sufjan Stevens.

“There is no doubt, this will change the NHL.”

From his position on the hastily bought couch in the middle of the living room, Kent snorted. The sound was loud in his empty apartment, possibly audible to the neighbours, but he tried not to think abut that too hard.

Taking another drag of beer, his eyes automatically locked on the spot on the floor where Navid had fucked him into the floorboards … four years ago. Four years.

Lots of things had changed in four years.

On the television, the men continued talking, and Kent listened. Drank. Cleared out the last of his dinner picked up from the deli around the corner. The same deli he and his Ma had frequented when they still lived there, when the apartment that was now his had belonged to the both of them. When he’d been younger, and all that had mattered was hockey, and all that had been bad was the nuns and homework and trying to fit in with the cool clique.

Cool clique. Kids probably didn’t say shit like that anymore.

He felt so old.

“ - exactly what the league needs.”

“See, here’s what I don’t understand – why is a gay man _needed_? We’ve had this discussion for years, both sides, and the pro one, the, the, the LGBT allies, you all talk about this ‘need’, like the league, or the sport, will somehow be different with gay players in it. Isn’t the point that’s been made the last five years that if you can play, you can play? Shouldn’t it exactly _not_ matter what a player does in his free time? Whom he comes home to at the end of the day?”

“Look, Leonard, I hear what you’re saying, and to some degree you’re exactly right. It shouldn’t matter what a guy does in his free time, whom he comes home to, but the problem is that it _does_. Guys like Zimmermann, gay guys, bisexual guys, whatever, the environment surrounded hockey, the dressing room and the fans and that, there’s no space for them there. They have to keep quiet, and hide, and I’m saying ‘they’, but we can’t actually know if there even is anyone other than Zimmermann!”

“Because no one has come out, exactly! So what Zimmermann’s doing, what’s so important about it, is that others, kids and other players and fans, who previously haven’t felt like they belonged, can now look at him and think ‘hey, that’s me!’ and know that they are, indeed, welcome in the rinks.”

“Coming out helps everyone. If we’re lucky here, other players in the league – if there are any, as Zachary said, and I’m actually inclined to agree with him, there may not be – if they’re there, they’ll come out. To quote Harvey Milk, ‘gay brothers and sisters, you must come out!’ It’s a duty, to the players themselves, and to those kids and fans that Keith mentioned. To make the league a - “

Kent downed the rest of his beer. Deliberated turning off the TV, but the remote was on the other end of the couch, and he didn’t feel like moving. Ever again.

Motherfuckers who thought they knew what the fuck they were talking about. Straight guys and gay guys who’d never stepped foot on the ice. NWHL players. All acting like they _knew_.

They had no fucking clue. And they never fucking would.

The beer can hit the bin, a perfect throw, and Kent whooped. Instinct by now, far too loud in the apartment holding only him and Purrs slurping her water, but there was no one to judge him. Not even the fuckers on the TV still blabbering on, joined by a veteran now that wasn’t Bad Bob Zimmermann and one that was.

Kent turned off the TV. Even he could only take so much.

It was raining outside, he noticed. Big, fat drops, noiseless somehow, and perhaps New York City ate up even sound. Time, too, he’d found, but as much as he wished, it couldn’t – or wouldn’t – eat up the past. Couldn’t even numb it out.

In the late hours of June 12th, the Providence Falconers had won the Stanley Cup, and Jack Zimmermann had kissed Eric Bittle, recently appointed captain of the Samwell University men’s hockey team, on centre ice.

And in the early hours of June 12th, a man had walked into a gay club in Orlando and shot fifty-three people.

That kiss had to have been in the making for months, but it was facts like that that made Kent wonder if perhaps it hadn’t. Something bright within a sudden darkness. Exuberant joy within suffocating silence.

\- and he couldn't even have given him a heads-up. After everything he he’d done for him … holding him through his panicking, keeping quiet about his prescription pills and his over-the-counter shit and all the fucking alcohol he had - 

Never once had Kent gotten drunk at one of those parties they’d gone to, not fucking drunk enough to kiss guys, but Jack had, and when he had, he’d kissed _Kent_ , and who’d had to come up with explanations for that? Who got the other guys off their - off Jack’s back? Who trained with him at insane hours and listened to all his shit whenever he fucking felt like talking – who found him after his OD? Who called his parents and waited with him, _held_ him? Held his hand when -

And despite all of that, Jack had still fucked him over. Left him alone in the unforgiving desert with vultures circling above and hyenas lurking in the outskirts of his vision.

But not in New York. For now, for a while still if he was lucky, he’d have New York. A home base, a hide-out, in which to watch the world pass by without him in centre. Figure out what the fuck to do.

How the fuck he was supposed to step onto the same ice as Jack and not beat the shit out of him.

A can of beer hit the floor, and Kent left it. If it leaked, it leaked. He could buy a new fucking carpet if he needed to.

It didn’t leak. He put it back in the fridge.

That night, Lars Bjørnholt posted a picture of himself in front of the home rink of a Norwegian hockey team. _Home_ , the caption read. On the Nashville Predators homepage, his name had been missing since March.

The day after, Kent ended his association with Henri Molyneux. There was no fight, no dirty questions, no threats. The man had three other NHL-players on his resume, had a name riding the waves of Kent’s, and he didn’t need him anymore. They both knew it. There was no need to pretend. And even if there was, it was far, far too late for that.

A part of him wanted to reach out to Navid. Somehow.

He didn’t.

Chiyo was still in New York, he found. Giselle, and there were a shit-ton of articles about that. None of what she was doing outside of ballet, other than a cup of coffee with a fellow dancer, a man, and Kent almost snorted out his coffee.

For all he knew, she was still heading to the clubs he didn’t dare go to, fucking every rich, middle-aged sponsor of the ballet she could get her short-nailed hands on.

She was good at hiding. Somehow.

She didn’t have to spend every day of her life in a fucking dressing room.

A week before his twenty-sixth birthday, in a tweet posted only hours before the Art Ross ceremony, James Traverne announced his retirement.

Six days before his twenty-sixth birthday, as Kent sipped a cup of coffee in the window nook of an old kitchen in an old apartment in Brooklyn, ESPN posted a new article. A new list.

1\. Kent Parson.

He didn’t read further.

Somewhere on the floor, Purrs let out a mewl.

He had a party to plan.

-/ \\-

It had happened once or twice that a vulture called Kent a good captain. It had even happened that an Ace had done it. In an interview, of course, never to his face, and Kent had never expected that. Not when he was twenty years old and had no idea what he was doing, and not when he was twenty-five and it almost felt like truth.

He knew his team. To some degree. Enough to make the team work.

Captain’s duties, and those were to keep eyes and ears open, stay on top of what was happening. Don’t react. Focus on the bench. Be attracted to women and not a former fucking teammate that wasn’t fucking talking to him and had fucked him over so hard he wasn’t even sure how to feel about it.

“Did you know?”

Barely an hour and a half into the party, barely three days back in the city that shouldn’t exist, and he should’ve known. He really fucking should’ve.

No fucking mercy, no slack cut, only what felt like every single pair of eyes on the rooftop less than subtly settling on him, and Kent kicked his past self for not having prepared better. Kicked the part of Jack Zimmermann still lodged in his chest until he bled.

_No, of course not._

_Yes, I did. He was my best friend._

_Yes, and I didn’t care._

_Yes, and I thought it was disgusting, but he was Bad Bob’s kid and I couldn’t say anything_.

_We all kinda thought something wasn’t right. But he was Bad Bob’s kid._

_I had an idea._.

_You can’t play with someone for three years and not have an idea._

“He never said anything,” Kent said, and it wasn’t a lie. Somehow, the thought sent a spike of adrenaline down his spine, tingled in his toes and fingers, and he continued. “And it’s not like anyone was gonna ask him to his face.”

“But you thought about it?” Lutz asked, drink and wife all but forgotten. Eyes glinting. _Vulture_.

Kent shrugged. “I don’t know. He was kinda weird, y’know? I think we all just figured he was on the spectrum or something.”

“So he never hit on you?”

“I think he was too clever for that,” Kent said, and it still wasn’t a lie. “College boy, remember?”

Someone snorted, muttered something under his breath, and Kent downed the rest of his drink. The last one for the night, before his tongue got too loose and he said something that would get him shoved off the ledge. Or punched someone.

They had two months ‘til pre-season. If he was lucky -

Except he wasn’t. Not anymore.

He couldn’t count on luck to get him through the season – never-fucking-mind the rest of his career. Not with the rest of the questions that would undoubtedly come his way. 

What he needed was a victory. After this shit, to change the questions, to keep them going, to keep everything _normal_ \- he needed a fucking victory. The entire team did.

It was possible that the NHL was changing, but hockey wasn’t. Some things mattered more than others. Had to.

He’d have to make sure it did.

There was always that bit of summer restlessness the first couple of days. Fun to return to, good to look back on come the season opener. Training camps usually got the worst out. Game face back on, love handles off. The draft had given them three new rookies, none of which would make it onto the roster unless they stepped up hard in the next couple of months. As it was, they were joking together in a corner, comparing abs only just visible through the slight pudginess of late adolescence.

Kent wasn’t expecting much.

But they had a good team as it was. A far cry from Kent’s first couple of seasons, but then the Aces had been new and hungry for anything even resembling a victory. They’d been given a rookie with gold on his back, fed him up until he could survive a check, then thrown him onto the ice. Saw how far they could push until he either broke or hardened to something that could last. Kent wasn’t stupid enough to think of himself as a foundation, not even as a part of the foundation, but he knew his place. Knew the expectations that had been placed upon him, had known how quickly he would’ve been thrown away if he’d failed.

But he hadn’t. He’d lost fifteen pounds over that summer, had gained enough back to play more shifts in his rookie year than any other NHL player. Jack’s overdose had broken something that had been put together during that year without him looking, probably crookedly and with cracks lining every corner, but the cracks hadn’t spread enough to make him fall apart. And so, when he had survived that first year, given the Aces all the glory they had wanted, they’d gone for one more, given him a C, gotten that record, too.

And he had survived that.

This, the mess that would come and was probably already copulating in the darkest corners of the league, he would survive as well.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he wasn’t going down without a fight. Whatever it would end up looking like.

“Heya, stranger.”

Kent startled, almost dropped his bag, and he was in the fucking parking garage, he – they were alone; it was the perfect time if -

“The fuck’re you doing here?” Kent asked, adrenaline only slowly fading as he came face to face with Marina Teterya, hands in the pockets of her dress, a subtly lifted chin, and had it not been for the scent of her perfume, Kent would’ve thought himself hallucinating.

“Thought you might wanna buy me a drink.”

Once, Scraps had sworn he’d seen her turn 90 degrees and head into a sex shop to avoid passing him in the street. Kent still wasn’t sure if that had been her plan, or if Scrappy just needed a pat on the back and a ”sure”.

Kent knew he was gaping. “Didn’t think you swung that way,” he said, and that was probably wrong, but she didn’t as much as shrug.

“I don’t fucking care who buys me alcohol. All I care’s that I’ll need it for the conversation we’re about to have. And so do you.”

Kent straightened his back. “Yeah?”

She nodded. Softened, somehow. “We’re gonna need a fucking strategy. _You_ are. And I’m not completely without empathy, you know.”

Had it been anyone else, it would’ve been an invitation. But it was Marina Teterya, and Kent opened the door to the passenger seat of his car. As if he had a choice, and they both knew it.

The bar was normal, tucked in a corner several kilometres from the strip, and Marina nodded at a waitress as they entered. A story, but Kent wasn’t going to ask.

“So whaddaya wanna talk about?” he asked instead as she left with their orders, one arm propped onto the back of the chair next to his. As if they didn’t both know.

“Jack Zimmermann.”

And there it was. Out in the open. “You asked me once if there was anything there you needed to know. There isn’t.”

The look she gave him was one so close to pity he almost stood up and left. “You’re not invisible anymore, Parson. We both know the kind of attacks you’ll be getting come season start. What you’re already getting on social media. Probably the dressing room, too, but I’m not in there.”

Kent hid his answers in a mouthful of beer.

“Look, my mother once told me, if someone says they wanna protect you, you need to be real fucking wary, so I’m not gonna say that I wanna protect you, Also ‘cause I don’t. You’re a grown-ass man, you can protect yourself. What I wanna do is be able to help you if this goes belly-up.”

As if it hadn’t already. “Why?”

She shrugged. “’cause the Aces pay me generously to do so. ‘cause I like to think I’m a good person. ‘cause I’ve worked too fucking hard to help you already. ‘cause you’re not the only gay who’s ever had to hide ‘cause he’s in the wrong place. Pick one.”

“I’m not in the wrong place.”

She smiled, thin but real, almost with humour. “No, you’re not. You’re exactly where you belong, but if you wanna stay, you’re gonna have to accept some help.”

 _’cause people like us need to give each other some fucking warning_. “You didn’t tell Harrison.”

“None of his fucking business.”

“You fucked Chiyo.”

“Sure did.”

“Are you out?”

She raised an eyebrow. “My parents know. My son, too. My friends. My co-workers?” She grinned, wide and red and predatory. Hid it in a sip of her drink. “None of their _fucking_ business what I do on my own time. I do my work, that’s what matters.”

“You tell about me, I tell about you.”

“Fuck, you’re paranoid. Sure.”

“I’ll sue your ass.”

“Wanna check me for recording devices?”

He considered it. “No. Shoot. Before I change my mind.”

“Did you fuck him?”

Kent raised his eyebrows. Beating around the bush wasn’t Marina Teterya’s style, he knew that, but the bluntness was a lot, even for her.

”Did you?”

”What would you do if I said yes?” Kent asked, folding his arms in front of his chest. As if that could protect him in any sort of way.

”I’d have it in mind while figuring out how the hell you’re gonna respond to this shit. So did you?”

”Do you think I did?”

”Yes, I do.”

”Guess there’s no need pretending, then.”

Marina nodded. ”For how long?”

“I mean, we were teenagers.”

“Not what I meant and you know it.”

”Does it matter?”

”Yes.”

” … five weeks.” Not quite a lie.

”Before he overdosed?”

Kent nodded. Beneath the table, Marina’s foot grazed his, and perhaps it was pity. Perhaps it was compassion. Probably, it was a fucking accident.

“Are you planning on coming out, too?”

Kent snorted. “No. What would you do if I was, though?”

“Figure out how to do it. Does anyone on the team know about you?”

“Burke thinks he does.” No one else, and it was staying that way. They both knew it. “So what am I gonna say? If anyone asks. In your professional opinion.”

The predatory smile returned. ”Do what you hockey players do best. Don’t give ’em shit, kid. Talk around it. And if anyone pushes too hard, pass their names on to me. I’ll deal with it.”

“Won’t that be a tiny bit fucking suspicious, y’think?”

“You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

Keeping a shiver from running down his spine, Kent clinked their glasses together. “Deal.”

It could still be a mistake, trusting her, but that was a headache for another time. She’d kept his secret for this long, she’d kept Chiyo’s, and he knew for a fact that no one on the team knew that she had a kid.

There was no more talk of secrets that night, not much talk at all, and Kent paid for their drinks as promised, even held open the door for her to walk out, shrugged at the plucked, raised eyebrow in return.

“My Ma didn’t raise a fucking caveman.”

“You’re a hockey player,” Marina said, as deadpan as everything else. “Close fucking thing.”

A cab pulled up, hiding Kent’s laughter beneath its engine, and Marina gave the driver her address. _An_ address anyway. He wouldn’t put it past her to give out a fake one to keep him from knowing the truth. There was a chirp there, something he’d definitely say was she a teammate, and he was firmly deliberating saying it anyway as she leaned up to kiss his cheek. Swift and lipstick-sticky, and Kent almost fell over in surprise.

“Don’t ever let those motherfuckers get the best of you.”

He grinned, as wide and predatory as she, eyes equally wide. “Wasn’t fucking planning on it.”

And she smiled, almost imperceptibly, hands in her pockets and slightly runny mascara. Real, for once. “Good to hear.”

Before he could think more of it, she was gone, the cab pulled away, and Kent was alone on the pavement.

*

9.01 AM. To ‘Mary’

_[link: tmz.com, Parson’s new flame]_

_am i ur favorite now_

9.03 AM. From ‘Mary’

_You’ve always been my favourite._

9.05 AM. To ‘Mary’

_wut rly_

_r u seriouos_

9.06 AM. From ‘Mary’

_No._

_It’s Marcus._

_Get to work._

9.07 AM. To ‘Mary’

_( ˘ ³˘)♥_

9.08 AM. From ‘Mary’

_╭∩╮ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ╭∩╮_

-/ \\-

For the first time in seven years, the Aces opened the season against the San Jose Sharks. Ugly and bearded and with far too few teeth. Confident, even as they stepped onto the ice on which they did not belong, on which they were screamed off by fans from all over the state, gamblers and tourists and regular Las Vegans, if such a thing existed. More black than teal, and that hadn’t been the case seven years ago, but it was now, and Kent couldn’t quite pinpoint when the tide had turned. When they’d become what they’d become. The Las Vegas Aces.

_Everything’s coming up Aces!_

Screaming, and Kent raised his stick, roared back, circled around just before he got to the Sharks. No need to antagonise more than necessary. His goals would do that enough, and the Sharks knew it. The fans, too, those in the rink, and those watching on TV. Those who had read ESPN and those who hadn’t.

After warm-ups.

“How’s your summer been, Parse?”

A Shark, Summers, fourth line forward, wife and two kids under the age of ten, and Kent smirked. “Pretty good. New York’s nice this time’a year. How were the Great Lakes?”

“Wet,” Summer replied. “Among other things.”

There was a chirp there, and Kent opened his mouth. No antagonising, but he could still - 

“But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

The words died on his tongue.

“Shit, you actually had me convinced for a while. Or do you fuck pussy, too? Was it just Zimmermann?” Summers’ smile widened, displayed a number of holes where once teeth had been, and Kent was nineteen years old. Nineteen and raw and alone in Las Vegas.

Except he wasn’t, he was twenty-six, and he was _angry_.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he was burning.

“Shit, here I thought Zimmermann _had_ a pussy. Didja see his boyfriend?”

Summers blinked, Kent could almost see the cogs turning in his head, then laughed, and that was good. Perfect. Exactly what he wanted.

Mother _fucker_.

Evading the gloved fist held out in invitation, Kent returned to his team. Lead warm-ups, as a captain should. Bent down for the first face-off. Ran.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he got a hattrick in two periods, stepped off the ice with blood on his teeth and an ache in his shoulder and a smirk at Summers who hadn’t been able to fend off a single one. Summer who’d been traded three times in five years, fought his way off the farm team every year since he was drafted in the third round, and past his prime. If he’d ever had one. Kent couldn’t recall him ever getting more than ten points in a season.

Who the fuck was he to insinuate that Kent didn’t belong on the ice?

How the fuck was he supposed to do that shit again?

Breathing in deep, Kent pushed down the thought, stripped out of his gear, dialed up the smirk an extra couple of nudges as the vultures entered the dressing room.

“Did you know?”

Closed his eyes.

“He never said anything.”

“Yeah, we were friends, but we never talked about stuff like that.”

“We were best friends, his parents were real nice to me, but some things just aren’t discussed on a hockey team, y’know?”

“It was the mid-late-2000’s, we were teenagers, it was a different time.”

“He was always a private person.”

“So there was never anything more than friendship between you two?”

Kent blinked. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t clench his fists. Didn’t as much as breathe weird, because he was Kent fucking Parson, and he’d been in the NHL for seven years. “No. We were close, real close, but it wasn’t anything more than that.”

Behind the vultures, Marina’s eyes were sharp, ready for a slip-up, ready to kick them all out should it get too far, but there was no such thing as too far, and they both knew it. Season was on the horizon, the Falconers were getting enough shit to make two PR people quit, and Jack had punched three people in the face in as many weeks. According to ESPN.

There was no such thing as too far, and Kent would run with them as far as they’d go, ‘cause he sure wasn’t getting left behind.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Burke muttered afterwards, one eye trailing the vultures leaving, the other checking out Marina’s ass. “I hope they know what they’re doing on the Falconers.”

Kent made a non-committal sound.

“Y’know, with all the fucking questions _you’re_ getting. Fuck, I hope for their sake they’re pulling Zimmermann from the dressing room after games.” He huffed out a laugh. “Then again, he’s even more of a robot than you fuckers in front of a mike.”

Kent didn’t answer.

”Still. Good thing we didn’t offer him a spot.”

Halfway to the fastenings of his pants, Kent’s hands froze. ”What didja just say?”

In all the years he had known the man, Kent had never seen Burke scared. Not when a guy went down on the ice and didn’t get up, not when his wife had gone into labour, or the car accident a month after they returned from the lockout. What flashed over Burke’s face wasn’t fear, either, but it was something, a flash of something that only made Kent feel colder.

”I said, it’s a good thing we didn’t offer Jack Zimmermann a spot on the roster.”

Kent opened his mouth, ready to burn, ready to tear, to _try_ , but closed it again. _Dressing room_. ”Think we can talk outside, coach?”

A ‘no’ was on Burke’s lips, something he would just love to slap him across the face with, but something must have showed in Kent’s eyes that kept it inside. He followed without a word, and the door shut behind them.

“What the fuck?”

Burke glanced around. ”We didn’t offer Zimmermann a spot on the roster. And we weren’t going to. This isn’t really any of your - “

”Why not?”

“We didn’t think he was worth the risk.”

Arms folded, eyes defiant. Defensive.

“Not worth the risk.”

“Correct.”

“The top scorer in the NCAA four years in a row.”

“A junkie.”

“Unconfirmed.”

“A liability.”

“Three years captain. Two years in Juniors before that.”

“He would’ve weakened you.”

And there it was, a sucker punch to Kent’s stomach, a knife to his throat. “He wouldn’t.”

“I think we both know you’re wrong, Parson. You might not be lying, but you’re wrong. Remember how you played last year? And the year before that?”

“I didn’t - “

“Yes, you did, don’t fucking try me on this, kid. Actually, don’t try me at all. Whom we hire or don’t is none of your business. You’re here to play, that’s it. That’s what we’re paying you for. So do your fucking job, Parson, and do it well. Let the people whose job it actually is take care of the rest.”

Mother _fucker_.

“I’m serious, Parson. Go home, get some sleep. We’ve got the Schooners on Saturday, and we’re not fucking losing to them. Not after this summer.”

They weren’t.

And there was nothing he could do anyway, a small voice in the back of his mind he wanted to throttle reminded him. That had been settled the year before. Jack wouldn’t have gone, no matter what.

 _I wouldn’t’ve fucked him_ , he wanted to say, but kept his lips tight. It would be too much, too close to the night a year and a half ago that they never spoke of, and although the words burned his throat, they stayed inside of him.

There was nothing he could’ve done. There was nothing he could do. Other than his job.

-/ \\-

The message was an innocuous one. Their group chat, and there was so much shit on there, another didn’t fucking matter. The video, on the other hand - 

The clock at the top of the screen read the end of the second period, Pens-Kings. Beneath it, the fuckers in black had gotten desperate, was the sloppiness to be believed, and the Kings far, far too confident. Settling down on the couch, Kent made a note to look up the puck possession stats later – if he remembered it, and he wouldn’t, ‘cause there were more important things to think about, like Purrs’ next Instagram post.

An offence was in the making, two Kings and another on the side that would come into play later moving in a firm formation, and the Pens scrambled around them. Between the pipes, the goalie dropped down, and there was no adrenaline shooting up Kent’s spine, but he remembered that play. The desperation, the penalties, he remembered it in his bones. Something would happen, and he was glad it wasn’t him on the ice.

The King was young. A rookie, his second or third game in the league, no goals yet. Kent couldn’t remember his name. Didn’t really notice it on his back, either, but it wasn’t important.

The check came in from the side, rough and hard and entirely normal, and perhaps one of the refs should’ve whistled it out, but neither did. Instead, the King – the kid – hit back, too hard, and this time a whistle was blown, but it was too late. The fight was swift, one second stillness and embers, the second a house fire threatening to bring them all down. There were gloves on the ice, linemen and other players scrambling to pull those involved from each other, and the King kid was down on the ice on his back, his helmet lying a few feet away, and he wasn’t moving.

In the privacy of his apartment, Kent flinched in sympathy. Bit his lip and pulled Purrs onto his lap to pet her as the still-unconscious King was lifted onto a stretcher and carried off the ice. There was blood where his head had been, and Kent couldn’t tear his eyes from it.

[Bubbles] Jesus fuck

[Tady] shit

[Scraps] Setting down a ground rule, we’re never doing that

[Parse] easier said thn done

[Smitty] guys maggie learned to walk

[video: play?]

oh fuck

poor guy

[Tady] shit congrats!!

[Swoops] If she’s smart, she’ll run away.

[Pops] is very cute

guy be fine is tough

[Evie] careful next stop is boys

[Smitty] fuck no she’ll never look at a boy in her life

And Kent moved out of the conversation, because it was late and staying up ‘til midnight and beyond wasn’t as fun as it had been when he was younger. When he still had bars to go to. When he still got drunk on his own.

Shooting a quick text at Elise - _whenre u in town next_ \- Kent turned off his phone and went to sleep, like a responsible adult, moving the fight to the back of his mind where it belonged and where it would stay. Because it was just another fight in another game. Nothing like Jack’s OD, or getting the C, or meeting Chiyo, or the Kiss, things that in the second they happened felt like turning points. Fists to the face, avalanches, the first drops of rain in Las Vegas in the summer. It was just something that happened. Like water receding on a beach. Or Jack taking a pill from a poison orange bottle hidden in the bottom of his bag.

Times when the tsunami didn’t come until later, but it did come, and it hit, and it took everything that had previously stood along with it.

_Kings rookie Niels Hansen out with a concussion after brutal fight_

_Fan reports NHL-player to the police following on-ice fight_

_Violence in hockey: where do we draw the line?_

“What the actual fuck,” Evans said in the dressing room, and the debate went from there.

“Bro, it’s fucking _hockey_ ,” Tady huffed. “An assault charge’s fucking – any charge is fucking stupid, but an assault charge? It’s so fucking ridiculous I don’t even - _fuck_!”

“I don’t know, man, it was pretty fucking brutal,” Smitty cut in. “Like, Hansen’ll be out for – fuck, no one knows if he’s even coming back – he’s a fucking kid!”

“It was out of line,” Bubbles agreed. “But that shit’s gotta be dealt with within the league, not the fucking police!”

“And it was a fucking fan!” Carly spat, actually spat, and Kent made a mental note not to step on the floor anywhere near his stall anytime soon. “He wasn’t even on the ice – he wasn’t fucking involved, he just watched the game and thought, what, ‘that’s illegal!’ - of course it’s fucking illegal, but it’s hockey! It’s not the real fucking world!”

“There’s gotta be a line,” Swoops said. “I mean, some things are too much, and this was too much.”

“It’s fucking overkill.”

“It’s an example – there’s gotta be lines! If he’d convicted, or, you know, if there’s consequences that aren’t just pressers and fines, it’ll set a rule within the league. I don’t know, it might just end up being a good thing. In the long run.”

“And if he gets away with it, fuck, someone might get killed someday.”

Smitty, and Kent’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second before continuing to dry his air.

Killed on the ice. If there was anywhere he wanted to die, and if there was anywhere he’d feared dying since his was fourteen years old.

Jack was the one that was out. Not him.

Perhaps it would be a good thing.

Perhaps it would even be something that counted for the faggots, too.

“I’mma head home,” he told Swoops on the way out. A hand on his shoulder, and one on his back in return. “Good luck here.”

“Fuck good luck,” Swoops muttered back without malice.

And Kent went home. Iced his bruises. Fed his cat. Watched a couple episodes of some show or other. Texted his Ma. Jerked off. Went to bed.

Shit happened. Scandals happened. It’d be a couple of days of madness, and then it’d all blow over. It wasn’t like Dazskiewicz and Hansen had swapped spit or anything equally unforgivable.

It’d all blow over.

Except it didn’t.

“Leonard, Hansen’s helmet was _off_ , that punch was straight to his face – and that was bad enough – but it sent his head down on the ice with no protection whatsoever. We’re talking a concussion, and if he’s really unlucky - “

“You all heard Dazskiewicz’ statement, it all went so fast, he didn’t have time to see that Hansen’s helmet had been knocked off - “

“Didn’t have time – that’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard, do any of you actually believe that?”

“Do you honestly think an NHL-player would deliberately attempt to injure another player like that? When I played, in the league, there was a code of - “

“Bones, you haven’t played in the NHL in thirty years, lots has changed since then – and I’m not saying guys are deliberately injuring each other, I’m just saying - “

“What _are_ you saying, then? ‘cause it sure sounds like - “

“Gentlemen, please watch your tone, this is a civil debate, not a kindergarten fight.”

“Barry, I think that ship’s long sailed. We - “

“ - doubt that reporting Dazskiewicz to the police was rash and - “

“ - _novel_ , nothing more! All it says is that the league is starting to take stuff like this seriously!”

“Stuff like this? Concussions? Fights?”

“We’ve had a problem for years now – decades! - with retired players suffering all kinds of - “

“ - and you think this is going to help? Circumventing the league - “

“We live in a civilised society! Violence can’t be - “

“Hockey’s not a civilised sport! It’s a fuc-, it’s a goddamn sport, there are other rules on the ice!”

“Other rules, like bashing a guy’s head in?”

“No one’s bashed anyone’s head in, it was a hit, and, yes, it was a bad hit, but you can’t - “

“I can’t - “

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Swoops muttered, and Kent could do nothing but not beside him.

“ESPN hasn’t run a single other story all week,” Bubbles said from a couch over, an exaggeration, but no one was in any mood to contradict him.

“It’s on CNN, too,” Tady said. “And Fox. Like, not even just the sports section anymore. They had a fucking debate. It was - “

“ - worse than what these fuckers are doing?”

Tady snorted. “Bro, they didn’t even fucking know the rules. And they still sat there and pretended they were the ultimate fucking judges!”

“Fucking ridiculous. You know what this means, right?” Smitty asked, except it wasn’t a question, because the next second he was smiling. Wide and predatory, and they all knew. “If we do anything like that … “

“Marina’ll straight up fucking murder you,” Kent finished.

“She sure will,” Swoops muttered, and if Kent didn’t know better, he’d think he looked worried.

“Marina?”

Kent glanced Carly’s way. Ignored the shit-eating grin on his face. “You know the shit I was doing my rookie year. She and I got to know each other pretty well.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he heard them. And the other ugly motherfuckers did, too.

“Fucking _get it_ , Parse!”

“Fuck, _nice_!”

“Wait, so that picture on Deadspin - “

Kent rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that. Get your mind outta the fucking gutter.”

“And here I thought she was a dyke or something.”

Lutz, and Kent stiffened. Relaxed. Didn’t as much as flinch as Carly let out a bellowing bout of laughter. “Have you fucking seen her? She’s too fucking hot to be a fucking dyke!”

Someone laughed, and Kent laughed with them. Settled back down in the chair he’d subconsciously been preparing to stand from. Ate the rest of his sandwich as the subject changed and the madness on ESPN was turned off.

It didn’t stop. They could turn it off, and they did, they ignored it around each other as all other team in the league and followed the case either peripherally or religiously depending on position and intraleague friendship and ignored all questions from vultures.

“We’ll have to wait for the courts to decide,” Kent said for what felt like the hundredth time, and Benny opened his mouth for another question, but Danielle Macmillan beat him to it.

“Parse, in the second period, you narrowly missed a goal rebounded from your own shot. What went wrong?”

That, at least, was something he could do, and he made a mental note to give her a good sound piece later. “You never pull your punches, do ya, Dani? It was bad timing, I’m afraid. Late in the period, y’know, and I’m sure you saw Maxwell moving in from the side. With Andrews getting back into position, too, they just got me from both sides. I shot, and I missed. Lucky for me, the boys had my back, and I feel like we really brought the game back in the third period.”

Utter bull crap, but the vultures knew what they were in for, and so did Kent. That was hockey. That was always going to be hockey, no matter what else happened. How much else changed. Some things would remain constant. Life went on.

It was two weeks before he noticed.

In the month following the Kings-Pens fight, not a single proper news outlet, only a couple of tabloids, had written a single word about Jack Zimmermann. Or Eric Bittle. Or Jack-Zimmermann-and-Eric-Bittle.

Shit happened, scandals happened. A couple months of madness, and then that, too, blew over.

Kent wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

-/ \\-

They played the Falconers on a Thursday.

A part of him had wanted not to look at the calendar more than a week in advance, make sure he didn’t have a chance to count down more than seven days, do anything other than what he’d done the year before, but -

But he was the captain. He was the captain, and he was the star player, and he was Kent fucking Parson.

And he was over Jack. He’d been in love with him before, and he was no longer. Simple as that.

He wasn’t going to skip again.

And they were going to win.

He was still angry.

They played the Falconers on a Thursday, and there were questions, but he dealt with those. He always did. There were jokes, too, of course, jokes and laughter and words that didn’t hurt anymore because his skin had grown thick and calloused, and he put on his gear with his mind on plays and strategies, and there were no questions in the dressing room. There so rarely was.

This time around, Jack stepped onto the ice as the first, St. Martin and Robinson just behind him. One on each side, as if they were protecting him, and perhaps he’d need it. Lutz and Tady hadn’t pulled their punches earlier.

They didn’t lock eyes. Had they been in a movie, rivals and friends turned star-crossed lovers turned enemies, or memories, or whatever the fuck they were, they would’ve, and some stupid-ass, dramatic music would’ve played, the camera would’ve zoomed in, and they’d end up in some epic, hate-fueled fight over the puck at the paramount moment of the game. One would win, and his team would win, and something between them would be settled.

They weren’t in a fucking movie.

The puck hit the ice between the sticks of Kent and Robinson, the eyes of Jack and St. Martin and Swoops and Carly firm on the drop.

Kent couldn’t tell who hit it. But the puck was hit, and the stillness erupted, and they were all in motion.

First it was Carly, a hip-check to Mashkov – and shit, he’d never thought of Carly as brave before – allowing him to pass the puck directly to Scraps who wasted no time passing again to Swoops. Swift and unplanned, opportunity and faith in one another, and perhaps that their greatest strength. They were all Aces, all strong in their own way, and they could all be the trump. Whatever cards were played, whatever were played against them, they could all be the fucking trump.

It was a beautiful goal. Swift and tight, Swoops and Scraps and Evans all working together in perfect order, perfect timing and a Falconer’s defence that hadn’t had time to properly prepare. Too focused on their own offence, and they were new. He’d forgotten how new they were.

On the other side of the ice, too far from the goal to help, too close to be anything but purposeful, Jack grimaced. The smallest of facial movements, barely anything at all, but –

But he knew him. Seven years, ten, and he could still see it. He was still attuned.

One day, he wouldn’t be anymore.

This day wasn’t it.

The puck dropped again, and Swoops shot it to the side, fractions of split-seconds before Jack could, and Kent caught it beneath Mashkov’s nose. There was no passing, not with the two other Falconers moving in and no Aces anywhere nearby, but Kent could do without them. They didn’t need him, except when they did, and he didn’t need them. Except when he did.

A step to the side brought him out of the danger zone, only for a second or two, but he didn’t need any more than that. A step to the side, and he was once more running, ice in his lungs and the goal in his eyes. Between the pipes, the goalie hadn’t yet dropped down, but he also didn’t look scared. He’d looked scared the year before.

A wrist pass to Carly allowed Kent to slip away from Mashkov without injury – the fucker was a giant, and Kent had only heard good things, but he wasn’t taking his fucking chances – and he received again a moment later, lost it again to a Falconer with a small stature and a hip-check that didn’t match.

There was another face-off, and he lost it.

There was a third, and he won.

There was a fourth, and Jack nearly knocked Bubbles to the ground in the fight that ensued.

There was a fifth, and Mashkov shot the puck just above Aidy’s shoulder. He was met by Tady and Lutz moments later, yelling and gesturing and not quite pushing, and for the first time, Kent was grateful that Pops wasn’t their starter anymore. Two Russians yelling at each other at the end of the first period? Not what they needed.

But they would’ve dealt with it, because they always did. That was the NHL. That was hockey.

And they all loved it. They had all sacrificed for it. They all would again.

The second period brought a 2-2, something that wasn’t quite a fist fight, and Evans saying something to Jack that Kent prayed he’d never have to hear. There were microphones around, Swoops glaring until his eyes looked like they were about to roll out of his head, and Jack passed a puck Mashkov’s way that with a swing of his stick and Aidy’s momentary confusion landed square in the middle of the net behind him.

A one-timer, and Kent’s heart stopped.

A one-timer, and Jack didn’t look his way once.

There was a celly, but Kent didn’t see it. Instead, he stood like a statue, like Lot’s wife at the destruction of her home, and they’d been fucking sodomites, too. They still were.

He couldn’t taste salt. That was something.

He wanted to leave the ice. Blame a knee, a shoulder, step off and rest on the bench, watch the others deal with this mess.

He wanted to cry.

He stayed. He won a face-off, and he received the puck, and he passed it on, and he ran. His legs burned, his lungs, too, every single cell in his body was on fire, and that made sense, _he_ was on fire, and fire could be healing, too. Wounds being closed, a forest burned to the ground, a phoenix, and it all required complete destruction.

Kent wasn’t destroyed. He was many things, he’d been many things, things he wasn’t and would never be, but he was still standing. He was still himself.

He was Kent fucking Parson, and he kept fucking running, because that was all he’d ever done, it was all he’d ever wanted to do, and it was where he belonged. In the midst of fire and ice, somewhere between purgatory and hell, and that was his Heaven. His Garden.

Perhaps Jack had been the apple. The apple or Eve, and that could just as well have been Kent.

It didn’t matter anymore.

He ran, and the puck was by his stick, and it wasn’t, and a Falconer came in his way, and he stepped to the side, kept running, passed, received, ran, aimed - 

\- stopped.

The whistle was clear through the blood in his ears, the noise of the crowd, too. He’d almost forgotten they were there at all.

Anger and delight, sympathy and wrath, and there was blood on the ice. On Carly’s hand where it held against his nose. On the few square inches he could see of his chin. On Jack’s fist. Jack’s glove-less fist.

There was anger in his eyes, pure and raw and fiery like the sky.

He was beautiful when he was angry. Like a storm, or an ocean in chaos. Charybdis.

Kent had never been afraid of Jack. He wasn’t now, either.

He never found out what Carly had said. Or done.

It didn’t matter. Jack punched Carly in the face, and he served five minutes in the box, and Alexei Mashkov almost scored another goal. Would have, if Lutz and Tady hadn’t taken him on from each side, earned themselves a couple of penalties on their own, but there was no goal in that time. Jack returned to the ice, but even he was exhausted with six minutes left. He wasn’t - 

Invincible. He wasn’t invincible, and he’d never been. Neither had Kent. Not on his own, not together, not on each their side of a face-off circle.

Because that did happen. Three minutes and forty seconds left, Kent skated up, and their eyes didn’t meet. He could see Jack’s, the light blue lined with exhaustion and determination, his own mirroring without meeting. They skated up, they bent down, they readied their sticks.

The puck dropped. It was knocked to the side. They both ran.

Apart, this time, for once, forever, they ran apart and they joined their teammates and they fought. The puck was gained, and it was lost, and Carly roared with paper towels stuck up his nose as it bounced off the Falconer goalie’s shin pads and onto the red line. A stupid shot, an unsure one, and it had been saved, a desperate shot on the rebound, and it was pure luck.

That was hockey, too, sometimes. Luck and desperation and determination and talent. Hard work.

Overtime brought a last goal, Aces, the horn blaring from above as Swoops and Bubbles and Carly and Tady and Lutz all met Aidy by the goal. From the bench, Kent roared with them. Rotations, sore shoulder, and that was hockey, too. Patience. Accepting the sideline every once in a while.

He wasn’t a rookie anymore.

And he wasn’t who he’d been before that, either. Neither was Jack.

Perhaps it was a good thing. Perhaps he could even admit that one day.

For now, he was raw. He was bloody, and he was tired, and he was still angry, burning embers beneath his skin, but he wasn’t burned up.

Their eyes didn’t meet as they shook hands. A light touch, and on to the next. As always, as every single time, as it would be until one or both of them retired. A light touch, and on to the next.

Just another one of the 82.

One day, he supposed, Jack would become Zimmermann.

But it wasn’t just yet, and he’d just have to deal with it in the meantime. Answer the questions, play it off, wait in the dressing room until he was sure the Falconers had left, even if it meant staying far past the time he usually did. Endure the conversation he usually ignored and which didn’t tend to start properly until he was no longer a part of it. A captain thing, or a him-thing, or the last remnants of Parson-and-Zimmermann, he didn’t know and didn’t care.

“ - if that man fucks his wife like he fucked Aidy out there, she sure ain’t leaving him. Fuck, I thought he was gonna do a Parse on you for a second, man!”

Kent glanced at the clock.

Ten more minutes. No, fifteen. And he would take the long way around. That should do it.

When he looked back, Brownie swiftly averted his eyes.

So much for subtlety.

“I swear to God, that fucker gets better by every fucking game,” Smitty complained from the other side of the room. Made sure no one missed a single word.

“Maybe you’re just getting worse,” Bubbles suggested and got a finger in return for his trouble.

“Nah, he’s right,” Carly said. “Guy’s been in the US for, what, three years now? You’d think he’d get worse, you know, with the anti-doping rules here.”

“Maybe what he was on in Russia fucked him up, so he’s better now that he’s got it out of his system here,” Smitty suggested.

“Don’t they take that shit to get better? What’s the fucking point otherwise?”

“The point is, fuck Mashkov,” Smitty said. “And fuck Zimmermann!”

Kent closed his eyes.

“Careful, he might take you up on that.”

Thirteen minutes.

“I can’t believe he’s still on the Falcs,” Brownie said.

Carly snorted. “’course he’s on the Falcs. Have you seen ‘em? Lady manager, Robinson on the defence, Mashkov’s a fucking Jew, too. It’s like they’re collecting ‘em.”

Next to him, Bubbles’ jockstrap hit the bench hard, and he left for the showers without a word.

“But still … “ Brownie paused. “Zimmermann’s in the same _dressing room_ as they are.”

Smitty laughed. “Maybe they have a gang bang in there!”

A towel promptly hit him in the face. “Fucking disgusting, man, the rest of us didn’t need that!”

Smitty threw the towel back. “Then don’t go in their fucking dressing room!”

“Guys, come on, can’t you just let him be? He’s not bothering you.”

Kent glanced up, just in time to watch a towel land half an inch from Swoops on the bench. “Like you didn’t have to watch him swat spit with his boy toy on national fucking TV.”

“You could’ve just looked away,” Kent thought he heard Swoops mutter, but it was drowned out by Tady’s groaning.

“Don’t fucking remind me. Did you see Zimmermann’s boy? He looked fucking _twelve_. Didn’t even look fucking _legal_.”

“He looked gay,” Evans said. “Like, proper gay. Not whatever Zimmermann’s got going on.”

“Fuck, yeah, that guy’s just fucking _confusing_. Same with that rugby player – and that football player, what was his name again?”

“Come on, man, that football player was too fucking pretty to be anything but a fag,” Brownie said with a hit to Aidy’s arm. “Zimmermann, too, if you ask me.”

“Nah, man, have you seen how he dresses?”

“Maybe he does it on purpose. Did it on purpose.”

“Who the fuck would actually do that?”

“I don’t know, Zimmermann? Come on, he’s in the NHL, for fuck’s sake. He can’t dress, you know, _gay_. Have you ever seen a gay guy dress like he does?”

“Like he rob Burger King,” Pops agreed.

“Rob a Louis Vuitton shop, more like, amiright?”

“The fuck’s a Louis Vuitton?”

“It’s bags? What, can’t afford to let your girl shop there? Oh, sorry, you don’t _have_ a girl.”

“Fuck you, I don’t need to buy women shit to fuck them.”

“You saying I do?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Fuck you, Lutz. Why don’t you - “

“I still can’t believe he’s gay,” Scrappy said a couple of benches from Kent, his first words since the game ended.

“Why not?” Tady asked.

“He’s so violent. Aren’t gay guys supposed to be, you know … not violent?”

Smitty laughed. “Words of wisdom, man, words of _fucking_ wisdom.”

“Yeah, I mean, he punched me in the fucking face!” Carly yelled, gesturing at the now violently purple bruise on his cheek. Still not over that.

“I don’t know, Carly,” Swoops said, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “I think I’d’ve punched you in the face, too, if I’d been gay.”

The dressing room erupted in noise. As if they’d never heard better. Fucking _hyenas_. Without glancing at the clock, Kent picked up his own back and followed him out. Carly could take care of himself. Certainly didn’t need some fag saving his ass. Even if he didn’t know that.

“You good?”

The door slammed shut, and Kent glanced up. “What? Yeah.”

Swoops nodded. “Alright. You going home now, or … ?” He glanced to the right, just as they crossed the hallway leading the guest dressing rooms.

Kent gripped the strap of his bag a little harder. “Yeah. Home.”

“Purrs needs you?”

There was no suspicion in his eyes. Just a teammate asking, Kent reminded himself. Nothing unusual about that. “She’s been acting up a little recently.”

“Probably just misses you.”

“’s what I think, too.”

They turned the corner. The sounds from the rink were fully gone, despite the no doubt lingering fans hoping to catch a glimpse by the entrances. Some days Kent was more grateful for the privacy of the parking garage than others.

Swoops sneezed.

Even if the air was fucking horrible. And it was impossible to close the door without the slam of it echoing through the entire garage.

“Jesus _Christ_ , I hate that fucking - “

“I’m gay.”

The words were out before he could fully notice, and Kent waited for the relief, the regret, the fear, but nothing came. Nothing at all. Had he even said those words out loud before? He must have, at some point, to someone. Himself, if no one else. He must have.

Swoops nodded. “Yeah.”

And finally, a feeling, and Kent grabbed onto it with both hands. “The fuck d’ya mean ‘yeah’?”

Something must have looked wrong on Kent’s face, a _lot_ of things must have looked wrong, because Swoops’ eyes suddenly widened. “Oh shit. You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember – Jeff, what the fuck’re ya talking about?”

They were alone, fully alone, he hadn’t even fucking checked before, but they were alone. And Kent - 

“Three years ago,” Swoops said, slightly unsure. “When we won the Cup last. You – well, you didn’t tell me, exactly, but you kind of did?”

Three years – the lockout year. New York, Navid, Chiyo, a bad picture, the year he had gone to see Jack at Samwell, after -

“We were pretty drunk,” Swoops continued. “I didn’t … shit, I didn’t think you’d gotten _that_ drunk. I mean, you don’t usually … “

And Kent remembered. An empty room, a bottle of champagne, the feeling of victory in the hollow of his bones that Jack had carved out and never properly left again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hand across his face. “ _Shit_.”

“Sorry.”

Long o and all. Fucking Canadian.

Kent swallowed. “You told anyone?”

He hated how timid his voice sounded, even with the echo of the still empty garage.

Swoops shook his head. “Of course not. Fuck, I’m not fucking _evil_. And we were just talking. Like bros, you know. You don’t share that shit.”

“I didn’t … fuck, I didn’t tell ya too much, did I?”

Something flashed over Swoops’ face, amusement or fear, Kent couldn’t tell. “You told me about, about you and Zimmermann. Maybe a few more details than I needed - “ Kent closed his eyes, waited for the sweet relief of death. “ - but nothing bad, I promise. Oh, and you told me I had nice eyes. And about some guy with some weird name?”

A couple more swears pierced the stale air between them. “I’m sorry, Jeff, that’s … fuck, that’s so fucking inappropriate.”

Swoops shook his head. “It’s cool. Pretty fucking flattering actually, no one’s ever complimented my eyes before. And you weren’t, like, gross about it or anything.”

“Good. Fuck, I’m really sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s fine.” He grinned. “If you feel too bad about it, you can always buy tickets for the next Golden Knights game we go to.”

Something that wasn’t quite a smile flickered across Kent’s face. Matching what wasn’t relief in the pit of his stomach. “I will. Shit, I’ll buy ya whatever y’fucking want.”

A hand came down on his back. “Careful, I might take you up on that. Definitely wouldn’t say no to dinner after that Golden Knights game.”

“ _You_ be careful, I might misunderstand that.” A gamble. But Kent was in Vegas now.

Swoops grinned. “No, you won’t.”

And sometimes, just sometimes, gambles paid off.

He had no _fucking_ clue what to think about that.

-/ \\-

For some reason, he had expected things to get weird after that. The talk with Swoops – the honest-to-God coming out – or the Falconer game, something.

But they didn’t. December continued on, one snow-less day at a time, wins and massacres (fuck the Stars) and a single loss ( _fuck_ the Bruins). Dressing room drama that didn’t include him, because it hadn’t in years. A pregnancy announcement. A Golden Knights game with dinner at a five star restaurant and a night playing Counterstrike that turned into Swoops crashing in the guest room and Purrs getting another couple thousand followers on her Instagram overnight.

The most confounding conversation he’d ever been a part of.

”Happy Hanukkah!”

Kent looked around the room, then back at Scraps who was still looking at him. “Thank you?”

”Are you celebrating with your Ma this year?”

Kent frowned, glanced to Swoops who looked just as confused. ”She doesn’t celebrate Hanukkah?”

”Oh.” Scraps frowned, too. “Is it your dad, then, who’s Jewish? Wait, shit, your dad’s - “

”I don’t have any Jewish family.”

“ - not, right. Uh. So you … converted?”

Kent blinked. ”I mean, I did, I guess. Just not to Judaism. I’m not Jewish, Scrappy.”

”But … ” Scraps trailed off. Frowned impossibly deeper.

And then it hit. That one day seven years ago when he had felt more lonely than ever before and bought that Chanukkiah. It was probably still in a cupboard, somewhere, even if he couldn’t remember where.

”Have you thought I was Jewish all this time?”

The frown vanished, was replaced by sheepishness. Embarrassment, if Kent was being unkind. “Yeah.”

There were others listening in, Kent knew. Stifling laughter at the sidelines, feeling ever so superior. Waiting for some kind of spectacle.

And who didn’t matter.

”I used to be a guest at the Zimmermann house at Hanukkah,” Kent explained. ”Just not after … after the Q, you know. I missed it.” ’I missed them’ was left hanging in the air, ’I missed Jack’ hidden just beneath the surface, but no one looked past that. No one asked any questions they couldn’t handle the answers to.

”You should’ve told me,” Scraps said, after a moment of thought. ”I would’ve celebrated with you.”

And as he said it, Kent had no doubt in his mind that it was true. Perpetually cheerful Scraps who had taken him in weeks before time and never said a word about Kent throwing up in the middle of the night. Never said a single word about Jack.

Kent, who didn’t fucking deserve his loyalty, his _friendship_ , cleared his throat. ”Thanks, man.”

The smile he got in return was blinding, as it often was, and real, as it always was.

That Christmas, for the first time in twelve years and for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of, Kent went to church. Not in the one it had been back then, not even the same branch, and perhaps it was for the best.

He’d been so scared as a kid, walking down the middle of the church. Had used to grab his Ma’s hand and pull her into a pew as close to the entrance as possible, face burning from the sound of his shoes on the tile floor. His first communion had been hell, walking down with the rest of the kids while the rest of the church held its collective breath, eyes following them all as they went to the altar first.

It had been so long since then. So fucking long.

The Presbyterian church had a ceiling covered in paintings, lifelike yet not, illustrating every story he’d grown up hearing from the thin book his Ma had always hesitated before pulling out from the bookshelf. It was a humble place, beautiful in its simplicity. The pews were worn, some holding the slightest hint of graffiti, but the dark wood they’d been carved from was still shining and inviting, and the windows were colourful and intricate, holding stories as much as the ceiling.

Walking down the aisle, the large cross over the altar holding the depiction of a mangled Jesus that had made Kent nauseous as a kid became larger and larger with every step he took. Not many people had come yet, just a few with bowed heads and moving lips, some with folded hands and some that just stared, like Kent, at the corpse on the crucifix looking down like they present had been in the crowd condemning Him to His fate. Like they’d been the women mourning at His feet.

“You didn’t have to come, y’know,” his Ma said, holding back Elizabeth tugging her towards a pew.

“You think I shouldn’t be here?” Kent asked, and she shook her head.

“Everyone’s welcome here.”

Here, and perhaps she’d needed a change of scenery, too.

With one last look at the crucifix, Kent walked over to the pew his sister had chosen.

He was no John, not even a Judas. There were no place for him in the stories, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t belong.

For the first time in years, he found himself with a prayer on his tongue, not quite falling, but there.

“Do you remember the fights we used to have?” he asked his Ma as they walked home, Luke asleep in his arms, Elizabeth in his hers, Miles chatting a mile a minute with his father and grandparents a bit ahead.

Sarah Parson-Miller hoisted her daughter further up her hip. “Not really, to be honest.”

“Yeah,” Kent breathed, the cold night air in his throat tasting like home. “Me, neither.”

*

[lutz] new year’s at my house!

[lutz] wear a fucking tie this time

[lutz] and shoes

[lutz] im talking to you bubbles

[smitty] Who’s bringing chips?

[bubbles] hey, not fair!!!

[bubbles] it was aidy who threw up in amie’s flowers!!!!

[scraps] i’m bringing some

[aidy] oh you did fucking not

[bubbles] fight me you ugly motherfucker

[swoops] Dad the children are fighting again

[lutz] no swearing at the house please i have impressionable kids

[lutz] jamie’s literally repeating everything at this point

[smitty] Make sure to keep Parse away from him, then.

[aidy] ready when you are fucker

-/ \\-

Coming back to the rink after a break was always odd, no matter how short it had been. Like returning home, every smell and sound and face familiar, and for the briefest of moments, before the comfort of that feeling settled in his bones, he felt bad. Whom for, he didn’t know. He lived alone, and there was no way Purrs cared about what he called the apartment they shared. What he called her.

Still. He felt bad. Until he didn’t.

“Morning,” he told the lady at the front desk – Lydia – and she smiled back. Not as young as the last one they’d had, far less trouble. Nowhere near intimidated whenever a hockey player walked by. Rosa hadn’t been good at that.

“You still haven’t given me those keys back,” Kenan told him as they crossed each other in the hall, and Kent waved him off with something that wasn’t an apology and nowhere near a promise. Those keys were staying with him until he left the organisation, and they both knew it.

His new contract was five more years. Another million. A no-trade clause and an established A-team complimenting his weaknesses.

Adjusting the bag on his shoulder with one arm, he pushed the door to the dressing room open with the other, just in time to witness Bubbles land a punch square in Evie’s face. He didn’t fall, barely, merely stumbled backwards with a hand pressed to his nose until he hit the stalls with a sound that echoed through the suddenly deadly quiet dressing room.

A few feet away, milliseconds before chaos erupted, Scraps caught Kent’s eyes. Then, it did, and Kent made an executive decision to walk the fuck back out.

He was too small to break up the possible fight anyway.

Whatever captain’s duties ended up being, they weren’t his yet.

“Didja do anything fun for Christmas?” he asked Lydia at the front desk, and she sent him an odd look but answered anyway. Laughed at his jokes. Blanched at the sight of Marina Teterya storming through the room, heels clacking in a way that made the hairs on the back of Kent’s neck stand up.

“Mountain climbing?” he reminded Lydia, forgot to weave in a bit of flirting, but she still smiled, thin and fake and far too wide. Halfway through showing him pictures of her children, Marina stormed back, a black-eyed Evie trailing just behind, upping his speed whenever she threw a glance over her shoulder at him.

“What he deserves, if you ask me,” Lydia said as soon as they were out of earshot, leaning on her forearms on the desk. “After a stunt like that.”

“Absolutely.”

“I mean, saying that shit in general, but on video, too? And the day before training starts back up?” Lydia shook her head. “What he deserves.”

Kent hummed. Checked twitter as soon as he rounded the corner. Entered the dressing room two minutes later with a couple of pats to Bubbles’ back and a nod at Aidy.

Burke was late. Probably a meeting.

Evans had signed a contract six months before. A proper one. Two more years, and he didn’t have a no-trade clause to lean back on. A bit of a name, a hint of gold still sticking after the first pick, and he’d probably be alright. Whatever happened.

They weren’t the Falconers.

“Warm-ups,” he told a rookie when he glanced his way, uncertainty in his eyes and hesitance in his limbs. “Burke’ll get there when he does, and we’ve got the Blackhawks tomorrow. We’re not losing to the fucking Blackhawks.”

“Fuck no, we’re not,” Carly agreed, and Lutz and Pops nodded, and that was that. Vets had spoken.

“You good?” Kent asked as the rest of the guys filtered out, and Aidy nodded. A little tight, but he bumped Kent’s fist and saved half of his shots.

“You good?” Kent asked on their way to the rink, and Bubbles shot him a look so dark he almost took a step back.

“You think I’m not used to that shit?”

Cold and harsh, so tired it tore into Kent’s chest and pulled something out he’d swallowed down year after year, stupid comment after joke after article after rumour. Lies so old they’d become a part of him, and there was nothing he could say. “Sorry.”

Shaking his head, Bubbles kept going towards the ice, stepped on without fanfare and with a set to his jaw Kent could recognise from miles away, and he left him alone. None of his business, not his headache, and nothing he could ever fully understand, even if he was closer than most.

Except he could hide what was wrong with him.

But he wouldn’t.

The realisation hit like a punch to the sternum – and fuck, he’d had a lot of those recently.

He _could_ hide, he’d done it for years, nearly half his fucking life, but … he wasn’t going to come out. He knew that. It was bad enough that Swoops knew – no, not bad, just – unusual. New. Swoops knew, and some in front office did, and his Ma did, and the Zimmermanns. Elise. Some people knew, some he had told, others – he hadn’t. It wasn’t black or white. Lies or words of truth.

He was sick and fucking tired of lying. But that didn’t mean he had to tell the truth. Not unless anyone asked.

And the Aces never did.

By the pipes, Bubbles and Aidy spoke briefly, patted each other’s shoulders before parting once more, and warm-ups commenced.

Burke didn’t show up. Neither did Evans.

They did fine without them.

Three days later, after the Blackhawks game – won, chirps no rougher than usual, Aidy on the bench and Bubbles with his eyes firmly forward, no Evans – a public apology was issued. A press conference, a shirt that should’ve been ironed, a statement on twitter and a donation to a charity he couldn’t remember the name of, and the story was forgotten in more games and a Ranger doing something worse.

Evans’ stall had been next to Aidy’s. When they returned to practice, it had been moved.

And no one asked.

-/ \\-

“The guys’ll laugh their asses off if they realise where we’ve gone, y’know that, right?”

Swoops rolled his eyes. “Let ‘em talk, Parse. It’s figure skating, not fucking _curling_. And we’ve got a girl there, we can always say we got pussy.”

“Yeah, the boys’ll sure let that slip.”

“Not a fucking – yeah, you’re right, that won’t work. They’ll definitely think threesome.” Swoops chewed on his lip. “You know what, how about we just don’t tell them.”

“Wasn’t fucking planning on it.” _Amateur_. “Shit, why’d you even invite me? I’m not very good at third-wheeling.”

“You’re not third-wheeling,” Swoops protested, firmly ignoring Kent’s raised eyebrow. “Didn’t you hook up with her at the Olympics?”

“Yeah, but we didn’t fuck.”

Swoops blinked. “Shit, no. ‘course not. Sorry.”

Long o, and Kent didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close fucking thing. “Just keep the macking to a minimum in front of me, wouldja? And if you invited me out of pity, don’t tell me.”

Pulling into the parking lot, Swoops winked. “No promises.”

“Gross,” Kent muttered, slipping out before the car came to a stop and shielding his eyes from the evening sun to look at the rink. Kansas City, Missouri, a three hour flight from Vegas, and they’d only had to cut half an hour from the afternoon practice. With a pending speeding ticket, but sacrifices had to be made. Another hour’s flight in the morning to St. Louis, and they’d reconvene with the team for a mid-morning practice before the game that night. Timed and organised, two hotel rooms a twenty-minute drive away, and they’d be fine.

Hopefully. “Swoops, what the fuck is that.”

“I don’t know, Parse, kinda looks like pants.”

“They’re shimmer-y.”

“It’s sequins.”

“Don’t they fall off during, like, spinning?”

“Spins, and no. Most of the time.”

“Wouldn’t it hurt to get hit with one of those if it fell off during spinning?”

“Spins, and I don’t know, the skaters aren’t usually that close to the stands.”

“Cool. What’s up with his face?”

“It’s makeup.”

“Oh, I thought it was a birthmark. ‘course it’s fucking makeup, but why does it look like that?”

“I don’t know, it’s probably part of his routine.”

“And here I thought you knew what’s going on.”

The look that met him was disappointed at best. ”Parse, I’ll have you know I competed in the Ontario regionals from the age of nine to eleven. I know my fucking figure skating.”

Kent snickered. ”If you say so, man.”

”’course I fucking do. Now come on, we gotta get going if we don’t wanna miss warm-ups.”

And then he was off, power walking towards what had to be the main rink.

”Definitely can’t miss warm-ups,” Kent muttered before following.

They found Elise tucked into a corner of the rink, nose buried in her phone, a silver medal around her neck, and for a moment Kent wondered if Swoops had somehow developed an Elise-tracking ability in his mind. Or if they’d discussed the seating beforehand.

Then, Elise looked up, and her face morphed into a smile so bright Kent found himself questioning if it was even her at all. But it was, and the smile was mirrored on Swoops’ face, and as they met one another in a quick kiss, he found himself wondering, despite Swoops’ words earlier, if he shouldn’t just leave.

He knew a lie when he saw one.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking at.

“You planning on just standing there? Or are you gonna let the nice people behind us see what’s going on on the ice?”

“Fuck you,” he said, sat, and she laughed, loud and bright. “Shit, I think they’ll be more disturbed by that howling.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” she countered, and before he could notice, she’d leaned in and planted a quick peck on his mouth, too. Dry and without pretence, and perhaps none of them were lying.

“Can you at least wipe your mouth if you’re gonna kiss me right after Swoops?”

With another laugh, even louder, she kissed Swoops again. “Now it’s fair.”

“Disgusting.”

“Come on, Parse, you know you want some of this,” Swoops said, gesturing at his body, and had he been anyone else - 

But he wasn’t. He was Swoops, he was his friend, and for once, Kent found himself at ease. “I would literally rather fuck a cactus.”

Another truth, he _would_ fuck a cactus before he fucked an Ace, another teammate ever again, and it was Swoops’ turn to laugh. No more words, no more chirps, because they were in a rink, but they weren’t in _their_ rink, and the only audience they had was Elise who was looking more amused by the second.

Elise, he didn’t have to lie to.

Warm-ups was different from hockey drills the same way horses and donkeys were different, and Kent wasn’t going to insult his sport more than necessary by continuing the metaphor. Still, he found himself wondering what the equivalent of a mule would look like. Goalies, perhaps.

It wasn’t for him, figure skating, but he could appreciate the skill.

At some point, after the third or fourth or fifth contestant, he happened to glance down and found Swoops’ and Elise’s hands gently clasped between their thighs. He didn’t comment, and they didn’t say, and there were still whispered jokes between them, commentary and explanation when he fell short, and he should feel on the outside. Disconnected. A fucking third-wheel, but he didn’t. Somehow, he didn’t.

”Who’s that again?”

“Serikbek Nabiyev,” Swoops and Elise answered as one. “Look out for him, he’ll probably make it to the finals this year.”

Kent raised an eyebrow. “He’s that good?”

As if he knew how good you had to be to get in the finals, or what the finals even were, but Swoops didn’t seem to notice. ”Oh, he’s good alright. Only had his senior debut a couple of years ago, but he’s easily in the top ten in the world right now.”

”Cool.” Kent frowned. “Is that Aerosmith?”

”Oh yeah, he does a lot of rock programs. Especially in his short programs.”

” … there’re long programs, too?”

”Yeah, they’re tomorrow.”

”Swoops, and I say this with the utmost respect – you, too, Elise - but what the actual fuck.”

”That’s figure skating. Now shut up, I – holy shit, did you see that??”

Kent frowned. ”He jumped?”

Swoops’ hand was strong on his arm, gripping much harder than a jump should do, and couldn’t he take that shit out on his girlfriend? Or fuckbuddy, or whatever the fuck they were? ”That was a fucking quad loop! A motherfucking quad loop!”

Next to them, an older woman sent an angry glare their way. Kent gave her a smile he hoped was apologetic before turning back to Swoops, talking too fast for Kent to follow with an equally impressed Elise. Raised eyebrow and everything.

”What’s the big deal?”

”Only one person’s ever landed that jump in competition before!”

“I didn’t even know Nabiyev was training it,” Elise added, something that was definitely respect I her voice.

“But, obviously, he has so much focus on strength, his jumps are definitely the most important parts of his programs - ”

“It really was a question of time, yeah, but this soon? I mean - “

“ - Lee didn’t even get it ‘til, what was that, last year?”

“ - really thought L’Heureux would be the first, or second, whatever - “

“You guys know I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about, right?”

Swoops nodded, eyes still on the man on the ice, hands still clasped in Elise’s and on Kent’s arm. ”That’s okay, now shut your mouth and watch the fucking program!”

“ _I_ shut up? You’re the one who’s - “

A loud shushing from behind cut him off, and they all turned, looked at the man behind them, then turned back to each other and stifled their laughter in hands or hoodies or zipped lips. Sounded like a fucking den of pigs on their way to the slaughterhouse, and on the ice, Nabiyev came to a stop.

“Ten dollars we’re gonna get thrown out,” Kent whispered, and Swoops snorted loud enough for the people sitting in front of them to turn. There were no glares, and so Kent shot them an apologetic glance in return, mitigated ever so slightly by Elise letting out a cackle on the other side of Swoops.

He could pretend not to know her. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But he didn’t, and they weren’t ejected, but by the time they finally left the rink, Kent’s butt had gone numb and he was fairly sure the hearing in his right ear had gone from Swoops’ shouting. He hadn’t even known shouting was something that happened at figure skating events.

Probably just Swoops, actually.

” … really not a surprise, I told you he was in the top ten.”

”Uh-huh.”

”If he isn’t getting first place tomorrow, I’m reitiring from the league, that’s for fucking sure. Shit, he’s probably got a shot at silver in Worlds unless Novikov gets back before then - “

”Uh-huh.” Novikov. Aleksandr. A long fucking time ago.

Somehow, it took him by surprise that they were both still alive.

It shouldn’t.

On the other side of Swoops still yammering on, Elise caught his eye, and he looked away. Looked back a moment later and gave her an imperceptible smile. Received one in return. No questions, not yet at least, and he could kiss her for it.

“Naomi!”

The yelling, not so much.

“ - said the same thing about the triple axel, but then, oh my God that’s Naomi Bonsignore. Parse, that’s Naomi Bonsignore.”

If he ever went to a figure skating event with Swoops again, he was bringing Scraps. Or Carly. Or just anyone else who was as clueless as he was. “Sure.”

Swoops nodded, eyes still on the petite woman with the curly ponytail having the life hugged out of her by Elise. “Would it be weird if I introduced myself? I’mma go introduce myself.”

There was a chirp there, and had he been anyone else, had Kent still been hiding, he would’ve let it fall. Found relief in Swoops’ eye rolls and defensiveness. But he wasn’t. Anymore. “Sure.”

Two in a row, and Swoops didn’t even fucking notice. Just strolled over, spine straight but relaxed, something on his face that was almost a smirk, and Kent almost wished he’d chirped him anyway.

He could do so later. After what looked like an attempt at a threesome in the way Swoops shook the woman’s hand and a decline in the way she raised her eyebrow at Elise. Unimpressed, and Swoops caught it, too, changed his posture, and that was definitely a chirp in the making. Which exactly, Kent wasn’t sure, but he had time to figure it out.

If there was one thing he never divulged to his teammates, it was how long a good chirp took to form. The prepared ones he had ready to pull out depending on which opponent he got stuck with by the boards, what goalie he was trying to annoy into letting their guard down. Figuring out what buttons to push and how hard in order to make someone back off. Aces, too, and they definitely didn’t need to know that.

Paranoid motherfucker, he’d once called himself, and that hadn’t changed.

Tumbling the words over his tongue, tasting them, he let his eyes wander over the crowd. Mostly spectators, loads of warm jackets, the occasional national team jacket, and perhaps figure skating fans were more chill than hockey fans. Good for the skaters in that case. The amount of times he’d been - 

Kent frowned. Brought his eyes a couple of people back. White and black jacket, kind of short compared to the people surrounding him, unruly black hair and headphones, heavy brows furrowed in concentration. Or annoyance. Or simply the way his face was.

He had changed, it had been three years almost to the date, but Kent was fairly sure he’d danced with the man leaning against the wall at the Sochi Olympics. Kissed him, too, before those two Swiss skaters had started dancing and he’d been whisked away by Aleksandr.

Or not. He was bad with faces. It had been dark. He’d been drunk.

But no, it was him, shapeless track suit and long, nimble fingers that still made Kent’s mouth go a little dry. Dark eyes that glanced up and somehow found his, scrunched up, widened ever so slightly in what had to be the same recognition mirrored back at him from where Kent was still staring. Like an idiot. Like someone wishing to get caught.

They could both pretend. The guy probably knew how to do that, too. The guy who was dressed bad even by Kent’s standards and still looked like sex on legs. And who was pretending he wasn’t still looking at Kent, who was pretending he wasn’t still looking at him right back.

They could both pretend, but they were in Kansas City, it was late afternoon, and Kent hadn’t kissed another man since Bjørnholt. A year and a half. He was only human.

“Hey.”

The guy looked up, and perhaps Kent had been wrong, perhaps he didn’t recognise him. “Hey.”

Perhaps he should just leave. “Good job out there. With the jumps. And spins. And stuff.”

And, yup, he should absolutely get the fuck out of there, except the guy slipped his phone into the pocket of his jacket and kept his hand there, angled his body towards Kent ever so slightly, and perhaps he could stay. For a moment.

“You don’t know much about figure skating, do you?”

The slightest hint of an accent, and his voice was much deeper than Kent remembered it being.

He was only human. “Sorry, no. I’m here with some - “ Kent turned around to point out Swoops and Elise, but they were nowhere in sight. “ - friends. But I think they’ve left. Fuckers.”

The guy didn’t smile, but something changed in his eyes, and they were nice eyes. Real fucking nice. “They’ll probably be back.”

“I sure hope so. Probably not any time soon, though.” He grimaced. Naomi Bonsignore was gone as well. “Yeah, I don’t really wanna know what they’re doing. Or where.”

A single raised eyebrow, and Kent had no idea if he’d just fucked up or if the guy thought he was funny. He found himself hoping for the latter. Make ‘em laugh, lead ‘em on.

Except he wasn’t doing that anymore.

Maybe make ‘em laugh. He was good at making people laugh. People liked laughing. “I’d stay clear of the dressing rooms if I were you.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he almost felt like laughing himself, or throwing up, but there was something that wasn’t quite a smile playing on the guy’s lips, dancing in his eyes, and something that was definitely a smile, or the beginning of one, found its way onto Kent’s face.

Seven and a half years, and it almost didn’t hurt. Not anymore. Nothing more than a scar, and he had so much more skin with nerve endings in it still left.

“I don’t know, you can get up to a lot of fun in dressing rooms,” the guy said, ran a hand through his hair, and the fucker knew what his fingers looked like. He had to.

“Sure can,” Kent said, and he was rusty, but this was a game he knew how to play. Perhaps he even had something someone somewhere would call a right.

“I can think of a better place or two.”

Especially when the attractive motherfucker in front of him was playing, too.

A glance around showed no one looking at them. Not yet, at least. And if there was, they were having a conversation. Kent was polite. And he was only human. “I don’t think we ever properly introduced ourselves. Kent Parson.”

A fucking hand-shake, perfectly heterosexual, and he had cold hands. Cold and strong. “Lee Seonghyun.”

“Nice to meetcha, Lee.”

“Seonghyun.”

“Nice to meetcha, Seonghyun.”

A mistake, possibly, but the guy – Seonghyun had been in Sochi, too, bore a flag on the upper arm of his jacket that Kent didn’t know all that much about but figured kept them equally paranoid, and his eyes were dark. Not quite cold, not quite warm, deep and dark and lingering on his biceps if he was flattering himself.

Deep and dark and all pupil up close as he pressed him against the door of his hotel room, the one he didn’t share with Swoops, because Elise was there and Kent couldn’t be more grateful. And he couldn’t care less, because Seonghyun’s tongue slipped between his lips – no gentleness, the barest hint of asking, and there was no way Kent would’ve said no, not with the way his hands felt against his abdomen, long fingers trailing the edge of his trousers, undoing his belt with elegance, and the back of his head hit the door he was pressed against.

“You okay?”

Kent nodded, pushed down the urge to touch the bruise beginning to feel inevitable, and kissed Seonghyun again. Slipped his fingers into his belt loops and pulled until they were flushed and he could swallow a noise straight from Seonghyun’s throat. There would be a bruise, but if he was lucky, there’d be others.

On his hips, just beneath the waistband of his briefs, Seonghyun’s fingers tightened, and Kent smirked into the kiss. Smirked again as he was pulled from the door by his shirt, divested of it, and pushed down on a bed. Barely a second, then Seonghyun was there, pressing him down with the entire length of his body, forcing his legs to the side, kissing him until no thoughts were left in his mind. No space, no need. Not until he was back out in the world again, and that was a while still. Eternity, if the world suddenly became a fair place.

It was only afterwards, when Seonghyun tied it and threw it in the bin by the bed, that Kent remembered about condoms. There was shame in that, worry, but little came through the fog of orgasm in his mind as he lay prostrate on the bed, starfish, and it couldn’t look good. It wasn’t meant to.

Between his legs, Seonghyun wiped his mouth with the back of his mind, more spit than Kent usually allowed himself giving a blowjob, and perhaps there was a secret there he could learn from. That, and the finger gently prodding itself inside of him seconds before he came, thin and experienced, and Kent had been proud of his stamina before that. A year and a half with nothing but his own hand and fantasies he didn’t like to think about anymore.

There had been no pride in the last few seconds. There’d been no space for it. No need.

“Your turn,” he said as soon as his voice returned, something almost resembling coherent thought, and Seonghyun didn’t quite smile as Kent pulled him onto the bed with him, manoeuvred him onto his back and kissed him soundly. There were fingers in his hair, legs parting willingly and a groan in his mouth as he pushed them further apart. Pressed down. Tried to emulate some of the total control Seonghyun had somehow managed to create, possibly failing, but there was no complaint. Instead, Seonghyun threw his head back, pushed back, moved his fingers to Kent’s hair as if he knew what it did to him. And he probably did; there were sounds swallowed from Kent’s throat, too.

Athletic bottoms were much easier to manoeuvre than jeans, he found, kissing his way down Seonghyun’s chest and letting his thumbs trace the line of hair from his abdomen to his groin. A nice abdomen, and a nice chest, moving in turn with ragged, barely controlled breaths above him, and he was going to fuck that control away. With his mouth. And hand. And -

“Fuck, condoms,” Kent said, kicked himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but Seonghyun blinked, as if he’d forgotten, too, and that was definitely pride. Moments later, he was handed one, fumbled, and there was a snort above him, but it turned to a groan as the condom slid on, and Kent followed moments later.

He was out of practice.

It was like riding a bike. A rubber-y, slide-y bike with hair and a distinct masculine smell.

He’d missed it.

Fingers pulling in his hair, he’d missed that, too, the feeling of his scalp burning mixing with the strain in his jaw and the pain in his throat, and if he hadn’t come only minutes before, he’d be getting hard again. Would be soon, probably. He’d gotten older, but a year and a half was a long fucking time.

Above him, sitting, and he’d have to practice more if he wanted to make that impossible, Seonghyun gasped, tightened his hold again, and Kent reciprocated on his thighs. Not quite nails, and the muscle was thick there, much like his own, much like most of the guys he’d fucked through the years, but there would still be bruises. On Kent’s, too, probably, and that was going to be fun to explain in the dressing room, but that was for tomorrow.

Tomorrow didn’t exist. Not yet.

Swoops would probably look worse, anyway.

Fingers tightened their hold on his hair again, more joining in, and Kent had to wrestle one hand loose to keep Seonghyun from taking control. He pulled off, ignoring the noise of frustration above him and the pain of suddenly-freed jaw, pressed a kiss to Seonghyun’s palm and placed it on his shoulder instead. That would be a bruise, too, but it’d be fucking worth it. They all would be.

Not quite nails, and Kent returned to the task at hand, ignored his jaw once more and continued, moved until Seonghyun couldn’t bite back his sounds anymore, chased them, kept going until they changed, stuttered, until the movements against him crescendoed in strength and lost their finesse, as fingers tightened in his hair beyond the point of pain and everything went silent. Boneless. Ragged and in pieces, and reality returned.

He was on the floor. Naked. Cold. Aching in his jaw and throat, his scalp, saliva on his chin and the corners of his mouth, sweat drying. Bruises on his shoulder and hips and thighs and strong, nimble hands pulling him up. A mouth on his, exhausted but precise, the taste of sweat between them.

He’d missed this.

Seonghyun’s eyes were still dark, mostly pupil, dark enough to drown in, but there was a relaxed set to them now, nothing of the perturbation and calculation he’d seen in the ice rink, and a part of Kent wondered if he looked like that, too. If it was another thing only seen if you knew what to look for. If Seonghyun looked, too. If he was as relieved as Kent to have found someone looking back.

He could ask him that. They weren’t in the same line of work, not exactly, but there would be similarities. Experiences they’d both had. Fears. Precautions they’d taken and would continue to take.

But he didn’t. It wasn’t the place, it wasn’t the time, and he wasn’t - 

They kissed again, and Kent had every intention to pull back and shower, or get dressed, but the kiss didn’t stop, not for a while, and the shower was big enough for two. Barely. Enough.

They kissed again by the door, still closed, still safe, and it was almost sweet. Would be, had they been different people. In a different situation.

They kissed, and Seonghyun’s hair left a drop of water on Kent’s cheek. For reasons he didn’t care examine, he didn’t wipe it off as the door closed. Instead, he pulled out his phone, huffed at a text from Swoops with an apology and a winky face half an hour earlier, and there was little he could say to that. A middle finger, perhaps, and it’d have to do. There would be questions in the morning, he knew, but he could deflect. And he would. Deflect and chirp, lead the conversation somewhere else, and it’d be fine.

He could tell, too. Swoops and Elise, neither of which he lied to.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

-/ \\-

For the fifth time in seven years, Kent’s name was on the list of those participating in the All-Stars weekend.

For the first time in twenty-two years, ‘Zimmermann’ stood there as well. Further down, second to last, just above Zrejci. Robert Gideon Zimmermann, Montréal Canadiens #5, forward. Jack Laurent Zimmermann, Providence Falconers #1, forward.

Kent Vincent Parson, Las Vegas Aces #90, forward. No James Léon Traverne, Pittsburgh Penguins #79, forward, and that was almost new, but it wasn’t a story. Neither of them were.

Until the fantasy draft.

It would’ve been a story no matter what. Probably. They’d played on the same ice twice, lost and won, won and lost, and it had been fine, but the shine was still there.

They hadn’t played on the same team in seven and a half years. Not since the Memorial Cup final.

It was an All-Stars game. Fun. Nothing that actually mattered. Entertainment. Fun.

“You said fun twice,” Marina said, and Kent downed the rest of his beer.

“Fuck you, I’m doing my best. You write something better.”

“I’m not writing shit. Believe me, you don’t want a fucking paper trail.”

Kent hummed. Ran his finger along the edge of the glass. “Will it look suspicious if I avoid questions?”

She shrugged. “Probably. Then again, you might not be asked.”

Kent raised an eyebrow.

“I said ‘might’. Why do you think we’re preparing here?”

“So that you can get free drinks?”

Marina raised her glass. “We sure are.” Drank. “It’s not a bad point. Fun. Stay on that, change the subject when you can. I don’t have to tell you to make it look natural.”

“Sure don’t.”

Sure don’t, and he did. Smirked and answered, shrugged and kept his posture loose. Moved on. Threw Smitty under he bus, but Smitty was tough. He could take it.

And so could Kent. One weekend, one game, and he didn’t count. Not like the year before. He didn’t count, and he didn’t drink, and while the bruises on his hips and thighs had faded, he could still feel them.

Seonghyun had been nothing like Jack. And they’d had quite a bit in common.

He hadn’t thought about that at the time.

He was thinking about it now. And he kept thinking about it, kept playing it over and over in his mind until the day arrived and he stepped onto the plane to Los Angeles.

The first thing he noticed was the heat. It shouldn’t be a surprise, not after seven years in Vegas, but it still felt wrong. An old conversation popped into his head, Bad Bob Zimmermann (#5, forward, retired), back when he and Jack had still been friends: there was something unnatural about hockey being played in temperatures like that. Las Vegas, he could almost understand. Nothing was real in Vegas, and everything exaggerated. In Los Angeles – perhaps it was Hollywood. Glamour and finesse and facades. Lies in pretty packaging.

Dallas had no fucking excuse, Anaheim and San Jose, either.

There was a Shark on his team for the weekend. He’d have to better that chirp before they got into the dressing room.

There was Jack, too, but if he played his cards right, not until Saturday night.

If he played his cards right, and he was a fucking Vegas man, but he wasn’t a fucking coward.

When he walked in, half an hour before warm-ups for the first competitions, with an audience preparing their snacks and cheering them on from the side-lines, Jack was already there. Dark hair, blue eyes, shirtless, his left side turned to the entrance of the dressing room.

He didn’t look up. Kent kept his eyes on the stall with his name on.

Exactly like they’d done it in the Q, except they’d never actually managed not to look at each other in the Q. And the C had been Jack’s.

They changed with their eyes still on their respective benches, words flowing around, past in Jack’s case, through in Kent’s. Nothing changed there, then. Something that had never been a lie.

“Kinda weird having him in here,” Davidson said to Kent’s right, nodding to where Jack was changing next to Dazskiewicz, voice too low for them to hear, and perhaps it was a kindness.

“Gotta get used to it,” Kent replied, pulling his jersey over his head and reaching for his helmet.

There were no broken records that night, nothing extraordinary other than the continued presence of Lukas Daszkiewicz, and perhaps _that_ was a kindness. Whom from, Kent had no idea, and he wasn’t about to question it.

Someone skated into the fucker when passing him by the boards. He did nothing.

Someone skated into Jack, too, and Kent felt something in his chest tighten, then loosen as the apology was uttered, too low for him to hear, clear in the guy’s eyes and the relief in Jack’s.

And perhaps he really would be okay.

Perhaps he already was.

For some reason, Kent hadn’t thought he’d sleep well, not without the aid of a bottle or his left hand, but he did. Eight hours, and it wasn’t a record, he wasn’t as fucked up as he’d once been, but it was still good. Appreciated.

He still came in the shower, hand wrapped around himself and dark eyes in his mind, long, nimble fingers, and hidden strength.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come to sky-blue eyes, gentle hands, and gentler touches, but he was willing to bet it was before the Kiss.

He was a Vegas man now.

There was still something about the body in the dressing room, he found as he entered it once more. Stronger than he remembered touching, with darker hair and more defined muscles, something in the lines of his movements that Kent could only call confidence. Cheekbones and jawline and ass and chest hair, and he was hot. He was. He always had been, even in their first year in the Q where he’d been more awkward puppy fat than son and legacy of Bad Bob Zimmermann.

He was hot, but Kent had had other hot men. He had never loved another man like he had loved Jack, or perhaps he had without noticing, but it didn’t matter. He would again, some day.

He would again.

Finishing the knot on his right skate, Kent grabbed the stick from next to him, pulled at the hem of his white jersey – and wasn’t that odd – and stepped out of the dressing room. The crowd was loud even there, ready for whatever shenanigans and fuck-ups the game would bring, delightful chance-takings and hot-headed excuses for strategies, and it was _fun_ , it was entertainment, and Kent was a Vegas man. He knew how to put on a show.

Stepping onto the ice, he did as he’d done for years now, what was routine but still felt novel, raised his stick and roared with the crowd, a response and an acknowledgement, the beginning buzz of adrenaline beneath his skin and a calm he knew nowhere else. In Vegas and New York, Montréal and Anaheim and Chicago and Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, Germany and Russia, it didn’t fucking matter. He was exactly where he belonged, and they all knew it. Roared it to him, and he roared it back.

The last breath left his lungs, and he lowered his stick, prepared for the reason he was there, his raison d’être for the night, what they’d all paid for, as a flash of white tore past. A teammate, and he paid him little mind, not until he looked over his shoulder a moment later and caught a glimpse of the name on the guy’s back.

Zimmermann, #1, forward. Behind him during the interaction with the crowd, a couple of seconds at most, and he would’ve had to have followed him from the dressing room, a couple of steps behind, stepped on right after him.

And Kent hadn’t noticed.

Ten years, possibly to the date, and Kent hadn’t noticed.

A sound made it out of his throat, died in the freezing air of the rink burned by his breath, and Kent swallowed down its siblings. He had a game to play, a job to do, an insatiable lover to please, and it was in his bones. Alone now, possibly, it was in his bones and his sinew and his capillaries, deep within the nuclei of his cells, firm within the hole in his chest where once Jack had been and which he knew would never fully heal.

But he hadn’t noticed.

The game itself went as All-Stars games always did, fun and games and checks that weren’t anywhere near as rough as in the real world, or what they dared to call the real world, and Kent laughed with the rest of the guys. Twirled and knocked fists and played with as much a smile as the instincts buried deep within him that would never die.

At some point, in the beginning of second period, Davidson knocked into a teammate, pushed him hard against the glass for several metres before pulling away. The guy slumped down, gloved hand pushing his helmet back in place, blue eyes scrunched up in pain and quiet suffering, and Kent looked away. Him and everyone else on the ice, the refs even, because there were crimes in hockey, and Jack had committed one, but so had Daszkiewicz, and the court of public opinion had spoken: his had been the worst. The one most difficult to forgive.

Jack had been forgiven. Somewhat. Perhaps it was his name, his father’s legacy, his mother’s cheekbones, and perhaps it was his play. His A. His teammates.

Or perhaps he really could be okay.

And at some point, in the end of the second period, Jack passed him the puck, and Kent shot it towards the goal, watched it fly and soar, hit the goalie’s shoulder, bounce behind the red line. A goal, a horn blowing, and there was even a celly. The briefest of touches, shoulders knocking together, and their eyes met.

It was a split-second, far less than the time given and necessary to turn a game around, take a chance, but it was long enough for Kent to remember the hours they’d spent in the Q attempting to reverse their one-timer before they finally gave up. Because Jack had never been able to get the puck exactly where it needed to be at exactly the right time for Kent to send it into the goal without looking. They were fine when he looked, he could do one-timers in his fucking sleep, but without, it was impossible. Jack simply didn’t have the control of the puck he needed for Kent to close his eyes and trust him. Trust _them_.

Of course he had trusted _Jack_ , had trusted him with his deepest, darkest secret when they were alone and breaths ghosted over skin and hands began to wander. When they had fucked until the draft didn’t exist. But there was a long fucking way from fucking to playing hockey, even if it hadn’t seemed like it at the time. Or the years afterwards, despite an orange bottle of pills and words that should’ve been said but weren’t and that had broken their future beneath their feet.

They’d had the love of a lifetime, Kent had thought. It truly was amazing what a teenage brain could cook up over its first love. First loves that never worked out, as everyone well knew but which he had refused to face. Until he was shoved off Jack’s lap and watched him pick up a short, blond boy and kiss him like the world didn’t matter _shit_. _That_ was love. The love of a lifetime, only time would tell, but it was more love than he and Kent had ever had, no matter how hard he’d wished. Tried. Conveniently forgotten.

Perhaps he would have it one day, that kind of love. Perhaps it wasn’t for him. Who the fuck knew.

What he did have was an article on fucking ESPN that gave him a crown and a throne that could very well melt underneath.

Except it wouldn’t. Because he wouldn’t fucking let it.

A split-second, and blue eyes looked away once more, the game continued, and Kent’s heart was beating, but for once, for the first time in ten years, it was not because of Jack.

And it would never be again, he knew as they shook the other team’s hands, knocked fists, stepped off the ice and showered a couple of guys apart. Didn’t look at each other. Kept their eyes on the bench, because they both had to survive the dressing room, and they both knew how.

It would never be again, and Kent cried in the hotel room that night. Nothing like the night in June, when it felt like the world had ended, and nothing like the night in June seven years before when it really had.

He cried, and it was shameful because it always was, but it was good, too. Cleansing, like the last infection squeezed from a wound, and nothing he would ever tell another soul.

It would never be again, and there was pain in the thought, dull and old, but above it, there was relief, and Kent fell asleep with it flowing gently beneath his skin.

-/ \\-

They played the Falconers again in early March.

They lost.

It hurt.

It was one in the 82, and it almost felt like truth, and Kent walked into the dressing room afterwards with something he hesitated to call relief flowing just beneath his skin.

In April, The Las Vegas Aces made the playoffs.

And the Samwell University men’s hockey team made the Frozen Four.

Kent read the news on his phone after a game, and perhaps that was when one more thing slid into place. Then, or in the couple of days following, as his playoff beard began to grow in, and they won three games in a row, and Marina rested her hand on his shoulder after a presser for a couple of seconds.

“I might take a day off from practice,” Kent said into the sudden darkness of a hotel room.

On the other bed, Scraps rustles off the covers from his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I was just - “ he stopped himself. “I dunno. Wanted your thoughts, I guess. If you think you guys can do without me for a day.”

It was stupid as soon as it left his mouth, and the word hung between them in the darkness. Kent closed his eyes.

“’course we can do without you, Parse,” Scraps said, and Kent didn’t know what he’d expected. “Everyone needs days off. Your shoulder playing up?”

Quieter, and the fear passed between them. _Every hockey player’s nightmare._

Old injuries. “No. No, nothing like that.”

“Alright.” No more words, but they weren’t done. Scraps’ eyes were open, gentle brown in the gentle darkness, and perhaps it was the darkness that did it.

“I was gonna visit someone. In Boston.”

And perhaps it was his voice. Something within it. “Oh. Cool. Want company?”

A question, simple and without hesitation. “You’ve got practice, too.”

“Everyone needs days off.”

And perhaps he was smarter than Kent had ever given him credit for. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one finding safety in the underestimation of others. “Sure.”

“Awesome. I’mma go to sleep now, if that’s okay with you, though. Can’t fly without my eight hours.”

And perhaps not. Kent grinned. “Sure thing, Scraps. See ya in the morning.”

There was no reply. Other than the sudden soft snores filling the darkness of the room, and Kent’s grin softened.

Boston. Said and done.

He couldn’t back out now.

*

The coaches kicked up a fuss, because of course they did, but Kent kept his head high, his gaze firm, his words quiet. No backing down, even as Scraps fidgeted behind him.

One day. Gone after evening practice, back for the one after. Both ready for the game to come. They promised.

“Shit, they’re tough,” Scraps muttered afterwards, and Kent snorted.

“They need us to win, Walter.”

“And we will!”

Kent grinned. “We sure will, Scraps.”

And perhaps they would. Perhaps they felt it in their bones. Beneath the layer of something Kent refused to name that was beginning to wrap itself around his bones, fill him up and threaten to show itself. As if he’d let it.

“They’re throwing a party,” Kent said on the plane. “Thought we might catch the tail end.”

Scraps’ eyes lit up. It was truly a testament to Kent’s distraction that he didn’t notice what that meant until they were at the car rental.

“No.”

“Yes, Kent.”

“Walter, no. We’re not going to a fucking frat party in a fucking Ferrari!”

“Why not?”

“’cause we’re trynna be inconspicuous here!”

“Parse, if we’re going to a party, we’re bringing some with us.”

Kent sighed, nearly threw up his hands, nearly looked as New Yorkian as he felt, and caught the eye of the rental lady. She gave him an almost imperceptible shrug, a twinkle in her eyes, and Kent pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re paying.”

And he did, without complaint and with a wide smile that Kent eventually returned. Even if his stomach coiled itself tighter and tighter as the miles went by, and they left Boston behind for something far cheaper and far younger.

Collegetown.

“I think they’re about done,” Scraps said as he parked the car, gazing at the dilapidated excuse of a house with something that was almost disappointment.

“Seems like it.”

“Does that ruin your plan?”

_Yes._

_Please_.

Kent swallowed. “No.”

Scraps nodded. “We going in, then?”

“Yeah.”

Neither moved. By the house, another couple of people left, stumbling towards the pavement with their arms around one another and joyful, heavily intoxicated smiles on their faces. A light upstairs was turned off. The clock on the dashboard hit two o’clock.

“Should we - “

“I’m going in.”

Kent didn’t know if it was the question, the darkness, the doorknob being turned forty feet away, but the car door slammed behind him, and there was no going back. A small figure made its way out onto the porch, blond, red t-shirt, garbage bag in hand, and there was no going back.

“Hey.” He shouldn’t have worn a hoodie. He should’ve planned this. “Uh, hey, sorry if this is weird.”

Eric Richard Bittle, captain of the Samwell University men’s hockey team, widened his eyes, nearly dropped the garbage bag in his hand, and Kent felt the tempo of his speech heighten.

“I wasn’t sure how else to contact you that wasn’t weird. Though this is pretty weird. Sorry. I can leave.”

“Parse?”

“Hey.” Kent sighed. _No going back_. “Listen, sorry for showing up without warning. Well, I guess I was invited. Did you know I’ve been getting kegger invites from Justin since, like, 2014? Since hat first one I went to. I think I’m on an email list?” He was rambling, hands up in defence, and he was there for a _god_ damn reason. “But, I … I just had to tell you. Good luck. To you and Jack and … good luck through … all of it.” He swallowed. “That’s all I wanted to say. Good luck in the playoffs. I hope you guys to all the way. And good luck to you and Zimms.” Still silence, a softer look in Bittle’s eyes, and - “So, yeah. Take that however you want.” Time to go. “Sorry for … yeah, thanks. I’ll get out of your hair.”

The garbage bin slammed shut.

“Parse – wait.”

Blond hair, red t-shirt, hand on his hip and a gently confused look on his face.

“You want some pie?”

An olive branch. Although the pie placed in front of him definitely didn’t have olives in them, and Kent didn’t even like olives. Didn’t exactly like pie, either, but he hadn’t planned on staying and now he was in a kitchen he’d been in twice before and a pie was placed in front of him with a glass of milk, and the least he could do was try. He supposed.

“Honestly, I’m slightly stressed, so this isn’t my _best_ work. But Lord, I went a bit overboard,” Bittle was talking, chatting as nervously as Kent had only minutes before. “You can probably take one or two of these home to your team. Or three. Or four.” Didn’t even stop to breathe. “I mean, y’all did drive all the way down here after a game! It’d be inhospitable … “

After a game, as if they’d made it to the fucking final yet, not just kicked the fucking Schooners’ collective _ass_ and readying themselves for the Oilers. He could correct him, but the night was too fucking weird as it was, and he placed a tentative bite of pie into his mouth instead. Widened his eyes. Nearly choked on the piece of heaven suddenly melting on his tongue.

“Oh my God.” He swallowed. Blinked. “Oh my fucking God.”

“Oh, you’re too kind! I made that during a round of beer pong, but I’m pleased with how it came out.” Bittle said, but there was a satisfied smirk on his face, and Kent realised with sudden clarity that he had severely underestimated Eric Richard Bittle.

“This is. Wow. Jesus.” He took another bite. “Thank you.”

“You are _so_ very welcome.”

And there it was. Southern hospitality only went so far. “Listen, showing up like this isn’t really fair. But I’ve been … figuring things out. I guess.” One piece of pie, and he wasn’t done. Apparently. “I really do want to wish you good luck. But I mean … Jack. If I could tell him … “

Bittle’s face hardened. “You’d tell him sorry?”

Cold, and the fork stopped inches from Kent’s mouth. Returned to the plate as Kent’s other hand made its way to the back of his head, a self-conscious habit of his teenage years he hadn’t quite lost yet. Or maybe it was the talk of Jack. “What? No. Or – I guess I owe Jack an apology. I know the last time we talked – he probably forgot all the shit I said. Not like I said anything terrible.”

“Actually, I was there?” Even colder, and perhaps - “You called him worthless. And said he was too messed up to care about. After knowing how he took time off because – how he almost took his own – “ A pause, and Kent could stop him, stand, _leave_ , but - “Because he almost believed he wasn’t worth anything. Parse, you said that to him!”

But he didn’t. He didn’t move.

Because Bittle was right.

Because he _knew_ , he’d been _there_ , he’d -

Because Bittle was right.

“Yeah.” _Because Bittle was right_. “Yeah, I did say that. That was … there’s not an excuse for that.” He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Right.”

“Sorry you heard that. Or, I mean, I’m sorry I _said_ that.” And he – was. With a sigh, he rested his arm on the back of a chair. Let his face fall. Spoke. “When Jack left hockey … it sucked. And … yeah. He shut me out of his life. But he was taking care of himself.” Because Kent hadn’t. “The shit I was doing at eighteen, as a rookie, in the league … wasn’t good for him. And if he thinks he owes me an apology for that, he doesn’t.” And quieter, “I made it about me.”

Truth, and the truth hurt, burned its way up his throat and burned the air around him, but it was a good burn. Dilapidated bridges burned, the trees of an old forest allowing for new ones to grow from and be nursed by the ashes.

“But at this point, trying to say all that to him. Yeah, that’d still be more for me than for him, you know? He’s way, _way_ past … Zimms has done so much for himself … “ he cut himself off. “It might sound weird, but I’m proud of Zimms. Even though I was shit to him. I’m proud he’s moved on in a big way. He’s a great player and Jesus … I’m twenty-six and our shit was forever ago.”

Almost presser talk, and was the look on Bitty’s face to be trusted, he knew it. “Hm. Well, now. Doesn’t make things easier … y’all were kids.”

Polite, and Kent didn’t need polite. “Yeah, but Jack grew up.”

He couldn’t look at him for this, couldn’t look at anyone, and so grabbed his plate instead, headed for the sink, placed it down. Breathed.

“And seeing you guys together? That centre ice kiss holding the Cup?” He turned. Looked Bittle straight in the eye. “Listen, when I said I came here to tell you good luck, I meant it. That’s why I came here. Because the more things work out for you, being out and stuff … you know? The more things could work out for everyone else. You guys are doing good stuff. So thank you for that.”

“Wow, I mean - “ Bittle’s face was unreadable. But honest. “You’re welcome.”

There was more he could say, more he hadn’t planned to, had barely thought to himself, but the moment was over. Or, it had to end. “This is incredible, by the way.”

And it did. “Oh my gosh, thank you!”

“Like, seriously. Jesus Christ. You should open a bakery.”

Bittle almost laughed at that, a twist at the corner of his mouth, and for a brief moment, broken as he turned away with a couple of pies in hand, because there was no way he could stand that thought for longer, he was only human, he understood how Jack had fallen in love with Eric Bittle.

They left the kitchen together, Kent first, and he could pinpoint the second they both noticed the noise. Remembered there were others in the house. Another shock as they walked through to the living room.

“Scraps. Why aren’t you in the car? What are you doing?”

From across the room, garbage bag in hand, wide smile on his face, Scraps waved. “Oh yeah, Parser! Well, you were taking a while, so I came in.” As if he’d forgotten him. “I’m helping Tony clean. We think we’re second cousins.”

Tony. Kent glanced at the couch, the young man who did bear a striking resemblance to Scraps next to a young, bespectacled woman. Close, almost too close, and something inside of Kent that had once been that young, too, young and chaste and not quite in love with his best friend, remembered.

“Hello, Kent Parson,” the young man – Tony – said, and yup, they probably were second cousins.

“Uh. So are you guys hockey players in the NHL?” the young woman asked, more polite than anything else, and perhaps she had waited for Tony. Kent found himself hoping he noticed.

“Yes. Scraps, let’s go.” He turned. One last time, words said, a weight lifted. An olive branch offered and accepted. Reciprocated in a smile. “Thanks for the pie, Bittle. Good luck.”

“Good luck to you, too, Parse,” Eric Bittle offered, a smirk on his face that showed nothing and everything of their earlier conversation.

“I meet way too many NHL-players or someone who got into hockey a year ago,” the young woman said from inside, sounding so tired Kent almost laughed. Even if he had, Scraps would’ve overpowered the noise with his farewell to the guy that was, very much, his second cousin. If he hadn’t been before they arrived, he certainly was now.

“That was fun,” he said in the car, honest and real, and Kent hid a smile in the window.

“Just drive, wouldja, Scraps?”

And he did, without complaint and with a wide smile on his face that didn’t fade. Never did, Kent realised, until it did, but even then it was easy to bring back. Because Kent knew how. They were teammates, after all, for almost eight years. Former flatmates.

Friends.

“He’s a brave one,” Scraps said as Boston came back into view, glittering in the dark. Not quite as beautiful as Vegas, but then again, nothing was. “Zimmermann’s boyfriend. Zimmermann, too. Takes guts to do what they did.”

Friends. “Sure does.”

“I’m glad they did it.”

 _Friends_. “So am I.”

Perhaps he’d heard, perhaps he hadn’t. No matter, as the light turned red and the car rolled to a stop, Scraps’ fist made contact with Kent’s shoulder. The lightest of touches, no words, and there was no need for them.

No lies, no spoken truths, and the car set back in motion.

No lies, no spoken truths, and they still shared a hotel room that night.

In the morning, they drove back to the airport, gave back the car, boarded the plane back to Las Vegas, and Kent punched Scraps’ shoulder. The lightest of touches. No words.

Friends.

-/ \\-

The puck hit Kent’s stick at an angle, and he threw himself forward, nearly fell flat on his face in his haste to pick it back up before the Oiler could get it, but he didn’t, he was fine, and they were two goals behind. There was no place for mistakes, not for anyone, and he wasn’t letting the fuckers win. He wasn’t letting his boys down.

Another Oiler came in from the side, and Kent turned, passed to a near-stumbling Lutz and shot past the fucker. Another turn happened in the corner of his eye, Tady, Carly moving in, too, and with a bit of luck and a bit of haste, they could get an offence going. Ten minutes to go, and they could still make it.

Four seconds, and a whistle blew. Turning, Kent caught a glimpse of what the _moron_ of a ref ended up calling icing, and there was nothing to do about that. No coach’s challenge, not after the mess that had been the second period, and perhaps the fucker was biased.

The puck dropped again, stolen by sn Oiler and passed to another, a third, a horrible back-and-forth that left the Aces scrambling and exhausted. It was too fucking fast, and Kent never thought he’d have to say that, but he did, and it _sucked_.

All he could do was watch as the puck was passed again, inches from Evie’s stick, just past Tady, right into the waiting hands of an Oiler expertly placed by the goal. Aidy went down, but it was too late. The puck hit his glove, bounced back onto the ice, and the Oiler had clearly expected that. Another shot sent it in, clean and honest, and Brownie broke his stick against the boards.

Kent could relate. If he wasn’t the fucking captain … 

But he was, and they still had seven minutes to go. There was no way they could win, but they could go out without a massacre. He hoped.

Hope was rarely enough.

“Guess that was it,” Bubbles said in the dressing room, owning him a couple of hard glares and a balled-up sock to the face. Enough for a fight to start, and Kent cut it off before anything could erupt.

“They need one more game. We can still keep them from getting that.”

“You think so?” one of the rookies asked, hope in his eyes, and hope really wasn’t enough, but he’d learn that soon enough.

“Weirder things have happened,” Kent said, a smile on his face he didn’t believe in himself, but they had another game in a couple of days, and weirder things _had_ happened.

The DM being but one.

lee_seonghyun > kentvparson90

_whats worth seeing in vegas_

It was weird, so out of the left field it would’ve given him whiplash hadn’t he feared an Oiler D-man had already gotten that done, and perhaps that was why he answered the way he did.

_me_

What made Seonghyun answer the way he did, Kent had no idea.

_sounds good_

_pick me up wednesday 1700_

And he did. Why – he still wasn’t sure.

They were losing. Company could be nice after that. The sex had been good. Great. Pretty fucking awesome.

He was lonely.

He was always bored in the summer.

It didn’t matter. He picked him up, and they didn’t touch, but they fucked for two hours straight in Kent’s bed, and he’d never actually fucked anyone there before.

“How long’re you staying?” he asked afterwards, sweaty and sated and relaxed in a way he hadn’t been since playoffs started. Or since February.

Seonghyun shrugged. “Worlds was last week. I have an ice show in Saitama in July. Season begins again in the fall.”

He had a bite mark on his neck. “Cool.”

And it was. The sex was great, he was always bored in the summer, he’d never fucked anyone in the bed he’d slept in for seven years, and company would be nice after the loss.

They played the fourth game in Edmonton, and – it was a fluke. It had to be. Lucky shots, lucky goals, an injured D-man. The fifth – they’d gotten some confidence back. Victory was impossible without confidence. The sixth, they were on fucking fire. Or something like it.

When the seventh ended, a firm 4-1, shock was painted on every damn faux-Canadian face. The audience, too, the commentators, the Aces most of all.

Conference finals it was, then. Anaheim Ducks. Another week, a month if they went all the way.

“Sorry,” he told Seonghyun that night, receiving a raised eyebrow in return.

“Would you like me to leave?”

‘Yes’, Kent felt on his tongue, but it didn’t fall. “No,” he said instead, and that was a surprise, too. In its own way. “Stay if you like. Just … I’ll be real fucking busy. And I can be a fucking asshole during playoffs.”

The second eyebrow joined the first, and it should look ridiculous, but it really, really didn’t. “Only during playoffs?”

Kent kicked him, a gentle touch, and Seonghyun kicked back. Another kick, and before he knew it, he was on his back, two strong legs bracketing his hips, and they weren’t hard yet, but it wasn’t going to take much, and Kent was there for it.

“I’ve been told I can be a bit of a dick,” Seonghyun whispered, and that probably shouldn’t be sexy, but Kent didn’t give a shit. “I’ll say we’re a pretty good fit.”

There were probably answers for that, quick-witted and chirpy, but they could wait until the morning. Kent surged up to kiss him, using his leverage to flip them over, and it wasn’t wrestling but it sure felt like it. He was getting chirped for that in the morning, the hickeys and teeth marks and scratches, but he’d managed before. He’d manage again.

He was older now.

-/ \\-

”We’ve got a shot, don’t we?” one of the rookies asked, eyes on the stick he was taping up. His hands were shaking. Kent pretended not to notice. If it was an issue, the he’d talk to someone. Or leave the league.

He should probably pull him aside after practice. ”At the Cup?”

The rookie nodded. It had only been a month since his first goal, a good goal, all speed and planning and a shit-ton of luck. Kid had soft hands. Worked hard.

Kent shrugged. ”Perhaps. But don’t get your hopes up too high. We’re not the only good team in the league.”

”We’ve got you, though,” one of the other rookies, one who had yet to tread NHL ice, said.

Someone laughed. Kent didn’t look up.

”Parse’s one guy,” Bubbles said. ”Gretzky wasn’t the only reason his teams won, either.”

”Bro, did you just compare Parse to fucking _Gretzky_?”

Bubbles shrugged. ”I’m just saying, one guy doesn’t win a game, the team does.”

”He’s right,” Kent cut in, before the discussion could derail into chirping. Fucking hockey speak.

”Bro, Gretzky’s a fucking legend,” Smitty continued. ”Parse’s … he’s Parse!”

”Right fucking here,” Kent muttered.

”Traverne, if we’re comparing,” Carly said. “But now that he’s retired - “

”Did you ever play him?”

Kent frowned at the rookie. ”Traverne? You know he only retired last year, right? We had - “

”No, Gretzky. When you were hanging out with - ” he stopped. ”When you were living in Canada.”

Jack. Always fucking Jack, and it should hurt. It always had. But now - ”No. Besides, he’s old. If I played him, I’d win, no matter how good he was when he was younger.”

”Bro, bold!”

With a shrug and his skated properly tied, Kent stretched, turned to the guys not involved in the discussion still happening above his head. ”Bubbles is right, this is a team thing. There’s no such thing as a golden goose in hockey. Or a golden rookie.”

The last part was quiet, and perhaps he was heard, perhaps he wasn’t. It didn’t matter. They had training to do.

At the other end of the dressing room, a handful of sticks clattered to the ground followed by a ring of swears that could put Burke to shame, ending any and all other conversation in the room. Carly kicked the bench, once, then once more, each followed by a grunt of anger or pain or whatever the fuck was going through his mind, before picking up a stick and stalking out.

The door slammed.

“The fuck was that about,” Aidy muttered.

”Don’t worry about it,” Lutz grunted, turning back to lacing his boots.

A few sets of eyes settled on Kent. He sighed. Of all fucking days. ”I’ll talk to ’im. Start warmups on your own.”

He found Carly on the ice, hitting in pucks like they had personally offended him. He wasn’t wearing a helmet, nor forearm protection.

”You’re gonna break your stick that way,” Kent said, just as Carly did just that, throwing the remains onto the ice with yet another roar.

Rolling his eyes, Kent stepped onto the ice. He paused a few feet off from Carly, just in case. ”What’s up?”

”None of your business.”

”You’re making it my business, buddy. We’re in the playoffs, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t fucking feel like repeating that shit with the Oilers.”

“As if I do!”

An attack, but Kent had been in the game for too long. “Look, if you’re not in the shape to play, tell Burke and take a fucking break. If it’s off-ice issues, get it sorted out. And don’t fucking take it onto the ice. You know better than that.”

”I know the fucking drill!”

”Then fucking act like it!”

Carly’s jaw twitched. At his side, the fist in his right glove curled into itself, too.

Kent pushed down the urge to take a step back. Or initiating the fight. ”Are you injured? Is that it?”

”Of course I’m not fucking injured!”

“Is it family shit? Has something happened with your wife?”

“You don’t say _shit_ about my wife!”

“So it’s her? What, is she pregnant?”

“No!”

“Did she leave you?”

The fist was swift, but Kent was faster. Always was. A step to the side, the slightest twirl, and he needed to be real fucking careful.

“Look, the other guys’ll be here soon. If you wanna talk, we’ll talk. I’m your captain.”

“I don’t.” Short and clipped, anger barely hidden underneath, but another explosion was far off. Hopefully.

“Then do whatever you gotta do, and don’t bring your shit onto the ice. Or into the dressing room. We’re in the fucking playoffs, you don’t have that right.”

Except he might, and Kent’s left hand curled into a fist of its own, but his breathing stayed normal. His face, too, and that was what counted. Carly might have a right to anger, but he didn’t.

“Look, piece of advice: all that anger? Use it. On the ice.” He smiled, far from true, but he was a Vegas man. “Fuckers won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Fuck you.”

Kent shrugged. “Believe me, it’s great. Short-term, at least. Get through playoffs, drink yourself into oblivion after that and pick yourself up by the bootstraps. Do whatever you fucking want. But right now, pull yourself together, yeah? Go get dressed, play some hockey, or go home. Whatever you need.”

“Don’t exactly have a home to go to.”

Something in Kent tightened, and had he been a regular captain, a good captain, he would’ve offered his guest room. Gone above and beyond. But he wasn’t, and he still had Seonghyun staying with him, and that -

That wasn’t happening. He didn’t have the right, except it was possible that he did, and no one involved wanted that. No one.

“I heard Evie bitching about his girl the other day. Kinda sounded like he might be in a need for temporary roommate, too.” Between the lines, but that was for them to figure out. And perhaps they would, if the slight lowering of Carly’s shoulders was anything to go by.

“Cool.” Or the discomfort. “I’mma go get changed.”

Kent nodded. Smirked. “We’ll need ya if we wanna beat those fucking Ducks.”

It wasn’t a smile he got back, but it was close enough. “You’d have no idea what to do without me.”

“Sure wouldn’t, Carly.”

With a nod, Carly turned, took the first couple of steps towards the boards. Turned. “Thanks.”

And skated off before Kent had a chance to say anything. Which was good, as he had no idea what the fuck he was supposed to say.

They had a practice to get through anyway. And they did, because they always did. Kent had just had more practice than the rest of the Aces, and that – that wasn’t fucking fair, but it was the way it was. This time, though, he knew, he didn’t have to be angry about it on his own.

He picked up Seonghyun by a park near the rink, exchanged a fist bump and ran a finger down his palm as they waited for a red light. A promise or something else, he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.

“Whiskey or brandy?” he asked as the door shut behind them, and Seonghyun raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to drink, but I’m drinking.”

“Whiskey.”

Kent picked up the bottle from the cabinet in his kitchen island. “Good choice.”

It wasn’t the most responsible choice he’d made, but they didn’t have another game for another two days, and he’d been good for so long. He had the fucking right, and he had the fucking company, for _once_ , and he could have a night.

Three hours later, the alcohol had done its job. Kent felt the buzz beneath his skin, nothing like the early stages of oblivion of the years following the Olympics, nothing like the paranoia of the Q, and it was good. Not nearly as much as he’d thought it would be, but he felt no need to change that. He wasn’t alone, and it was nice in a way he only barely remembered.

On the couch, Seonghyun made cooing noises at Purrs, and had she not been in the way, Kent would’ve kissed him stupid for it. Because he could. But Purrs looked far too comfortable, and Kent knew better than to get in the way of that. Even when she stuck out her claws and nearly knicked her temporary throne in the thigh to jump back onto the floor.

“Your cat’s an asshole.”

Kent snorted. “Nah, she’s a fucking diva. Pretty important difference.”

Seonghyun frowned. “You know Purrs is male, right?”

Kent blinked. Glanced down at the ball of fur still on the floor. Gently put down his glass on the table and picked her up. Ignored her protests. Looked. “Huh.”

“Yup.”

“ _Huh_.” He put her back down. She scattered off, an offended look on her face. “Well, I don’t think cats care all that much ‘bout pronouns.”

Seonghyun raised an eyebrow.

Kent shrugged. “I’m not the kinda gay that doesn’t realise there’re other letters in the word soup. And that none of ‘em are welcome in a fucking hockey rink.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Seonghyun muttered, then did just that. More than he’d had previously, and there was probably a story there. Had they been more, Kent would’ve asked. Had they - 

“Did you play?”

“When I was a kid.”

“Why’d you quit?”

The look sent his way was harsh, but Kent didn’t look away. For a couple of seconds, they stared at each other, then the look softened ever so slightly. “You get three guesses and the first two don’t count. I was better at figure skating anyway. Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Quit hockey.”

Kent almost laughed. Perhaps he even did. “’cause I never wanted to.”

*

“Pass!” someone yelled, and Kent didn’t hesitate, just stuck the heel of his skate down, turned a quarter of circle, shot. Bubbles wasn’t far off, fifteen feet or so, at his ten, stick raised, and he was looking at Kent, always had to, but the puck went where it had to go, and a horn blared above them.

Bubbles wasn’t Jack, and for that, Kent was glad.

3-2, three wins to two losses.

The fight was brutal, fists out and blood on the ice, and Kent watched from the sidelines, kept his arm firmly in front of the Duck threatening to break free and join the fight, and they’d both stay. Even if Kent wasn’t much of a threat.

Carly and the Duck were pulled apart, Evie and another pushed away, and perhaps Kent shouldn’t have encouraged the two of them to move in with each other. Fucking echo chambers, and he wasn’t stepping foot inside if he could help it. Which he probably couldn’t, but he’d dealt with worse.

The puck fell again, and Swoops shot it to the side, stepped away, too, as a Duck nearly ran him over. Desperate, and Kent couldn’t fucking blame him. Still, he caught and he ran, evaded one D-man and kept his eye on the other, on Tady coming in from behind to get him out of the way. On the goalie, because face-offs in the offensive zone were dangerous, and they had five minutes left on the clock. Exhaustion had gotten to them all, burned through their bones, but they were burning as it was. Fire didn’t hurt any of them.

The goalie’s eyes widened, they always fucking did, and Kent closed his as they collided. Chaos erupted, and that wasn’t new, either, but a horn blew, and perhaps it was enough.

“Motherfucker!” someone yelled, and only Carly’s fist pulling at the back of his jersey kept the hit away.

“Thanks,” Kent said, and that wasn’t answered, either. Didn’t need to be, because they were fucking teammates, and the final was days away.

“After video review - ” the ref said, arms raised and the breath of the rink in his hands. “ - we have no goal!”

Kent swore under his breath, but there was nothing to do. A two-minute penalty, a kill if he dared stepping into the ice again, and -

And the Aces didn’t need him.

The offence was swift, scrambling in the beginning, more and more secure as the seconds passed and the Ducks got used to his absence. Swoops and Bubbles and Scraps, and perhaps he should feel excluded, but he didn’t, not as the formation became clear, and the goalie threw himself down, and the puck went in. Nor during the celly, and especially not as the horn declared them victors and the celly belonged to them all. The goal, the win, everything. From Swoops’ and Bubbles’ sticks, but it belonged to all of them.

And in four days, the final would be theirs, too. For better or for worse, it would be theirs.

“Congratulations,” Seonghyun told him that night, folded into himself on the couch, one leg on Kent’s lap caressed by his hand as he watched the Penguins slaughter the Flyers.

“Thanks,” Kent said, and this time it was met by a kiss. Gentle, not quite soft, a firm presence in his lap within minutes, another poking into his stomach, and it had been a long fucking time since Kent had last fucked on a couch.

It wasn’t this time. The bed was more comfortable anyway, and he wasn’t fucking complaining, not with a strong pair of legs wrapped around his waist, hair and sweat probably chafing the skin there, but it was too good to stop and adjust. That wasn’t fucking happening, and Kent shoved his head into the crook between Seonghyun’s neck and shoulder, breathed in the scent of him as red lines were drawn down his back. Another round of chirps, but Swoops’ glances were knowing, curious, too, and it was fine. He was fine.

They came together, too far gone to kiss, and it was fucking disgusting, slippery and far too much saliva, but he wasn’t _fucking_ complaining.

And they came down together, disentangling from each other in stages, pushing the long-struggling duvet completely onto the floor, and there was laughter. It had been a long fucking time since Kent had laughed after sex.

For a long moment, they just lay there, looking at each other, and perhaps Kent really could drown in Seonghyun’s eyes. Deep and dark as they were. Black, almost, but not quite. Grey or brown, too, but neither of those as well. Somewhere in the middle. If there was a middle.

“Do you know what colour your eyes are?” Kent whispered, and Seonghyun snorted.

“Do you?”

He shook his head. “Can’t figure it out.”

“You think I have it easier?”

Kent shook his head again, as much as he could horizontally. “I’ve got anime eyes,” he whispered, and Seonghyun snorted again, heaving sounds against the pillow he pressed his face into to the point where Kent was worried he was going to suffocate. Or was suffocating.

“You have a problem with how I laugh?” Seonghyun asked, and oops, he’d said it out loud.

“No, your laugh’s - “ he tried to think of a word, went through several in his head. “ - nice. I like your laugh.”

Seonghyun raised an eyebrow, thick and infinitely more expressive than his face, and Kent succumbed to a fit of laughter on his own, ended up hiding it in Seonghyun’s chest, and that was fucking disgusting, but there were arms around him, bony and strong, and that was nice. Warm. Seonghyun was warm. And a good kisser. A good pillow, too, bony but good, long, nimble fingers trailing through his hair, undoing knots and cowlicks and messes, gentle but firm against his scalp, and Kent fell asleep with a sigh. Woke with fingers still in his hair and a taste in his mouth like something had died there.

Seonghyun’s chest was still beneath the side of his head, his other hand tangled in Kent’s as their legs were. Half-hard, they both were, and that would be fun when Seonghyun woke up. Pushed Kent off and wiped the drool from the side of his mouth and blinked his eyes open. Yawned. Ran a hand through his hair. Smiled with his eyes only.

Black, grey, or brown, and perhaps he’d have it figured out by the end of the summer. Or whenever else Seonghyun ended up leaving. Perhaps he wouldn’t.

A summer could be a long time. For the first time in a very long time, Kent found himself wishing it would be. For now, Seonghyun was still asleep, everything else could wait, and Kent closed his eyes again. Listened to the heartbeat beneath his ear. Counted it into sleep.

-/ \\-

At first, Kent didn’t even realise he was awake. All he sensed was warmth and comfort and the rhythm of breathing and heartbeat. Then, he did realise, and with the realisation came the memories of who he was, and where and with whom, the latter a pressure against his shoulder and on his chest. Beneath his hand. Soft hair tingling at his jaw.

For a moment, Kent allowed himself to just lay there, enjoy the moment. The warmth, the comfort, the rhythm of their breathing and heartbeat, not in sync, but still together.

Blinking his eyes open, the light wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, just a slight strip above the curtains Scrappy had given him for a birthday once, long and heavy and entirely too yellow. Most of it hit just off the bed, would be there in maybe half an hour. Some was already on Purrs’ back where she was curled up on the armchair.

Kent glanced down. Even with his head pressed against Kent’s shoulder in a way that looked in no way comfortable, Seonghyun was still sound asleep.

On his bedside table, angry red numbers read 6:26.

For a couple of moments, breaths, heartbeats, Kent shut his eyes again, then opened them. Staying in bed all day wasn’t an option. Tomorrow, maybe. Not today.

Moving Seonghyun’s hand from his chest was the first step. Removing his own arm from where it was caught under his neck without waking him up was an entirely different headache, but in the end, Kent managed. The floor was cold beneath his feet, the air colder against his skin. Sleeping with another person did that, he supposed. Got you used to warmth even Las Vegas mornings couldn’t recreate.

Vegas wasn’t a city for intimacy.

Unless it was, but that was a thought for another day.

He padded to the bathroom as quietly as possible, past the suit on its hanger in the walk-in closet, shut the door behind him with a soft click. There was shaving cream on the counter, next to the sink. With a small twitch at the corner of his mouth and a grab for the toothbrush, Kent remembered once having grabbed some and shaven off his playoff beard. On accident. Thankfully at a time where it was more a sad excuse than anything else, and no one had noticed. They had still won the Cup.

The bedroom was quiet when he returned. Seonghyun had moved slightly, snatched Kent’s pillow and decided to drool a bit on it. Better the pillow than him, Kent thought as he pulled off his ragged old t-shirt, a remnant of his first year on the Aces.

So long ago now. A fucking lifetime.

He made it as far as having both arms in the shirt sleeves when the covers rustled behind him.

”Good morning.”

A grumble back. On the bed, Seonghyun was resting on his elbow, eyes blinking. His hair was a mess, even more so than usual, but combined with the soft t-shirt he was wearing, it was almost lethal. Tomorrow, for sure.

”When will you leave?”

”Half an hour.”

A nod. ”Breakfast?”

Priorities. ”I’m about to make some.”

”Don’t bother.” With those words, Seonghyun half-stood, half-slid out of bed, took a moment to regain his balance before padding in the vague direction of the kitchen. ”I’ll make it. Get dressed.”

The door shut behind him before Kent had the chance to protest.

When he came to the kitchen, suit jacket thrown over one arm and hair entirely given up on, Seonghyun was standing in the kitchen, back to Kent, cooking something in a pan he couldn’t remember buying.

Whoever decided figure skaters should be allowed to wear boxer briefs should be sued. Or given a raise.

_Do he got the booty? Do he got too much booty?_

_No such thing_.

Seonghyun chose that exact moment to turn, caught Kent’s eyes and gave him a disappointed raised eyebrow.

Kent raised an innocent one in return.

They ate in comfortable silence, sitting both at the bar stools by the kitchen counter Kent hadn’t used in years. It felt almost like a morning after a drunken night out, and for a moment, Kent almost did feel drunk.

Domestic. It felt fucking domestic.

”When are you leaving for Japan again?” Kent asked.

”Three weeks.”

”Can I come?”

A glance up. ”Do you want to?”

Kent shrugged. ”I’ve only seen you skate in person once. I’d like to do it again. If you’d let me.”

Seonghyun thought it over. ”Sure. If you won’t ask me what a triple axel is again.”

”Chirping me this early? Come on - ” He caught the ’babe’ before it rolled off his tongue.

”It’s not-morning somewhere,” Seonghyun said through a bite of what Kent was slowly beginning to realise was meat. Early mornings really could go fuck themselves.

”True.”

They placed the dishes in the sink together, silently agreeing to save the cleaning for later. After morning practice. Four weeks, and Kent had no idea what the fuck Seonghyun was to him, what he could be, but he wasn’t a fucking housemaid.

“I’ve got tickets for you tonight. If you wanna come.”

Seonghyun shrugged, a little too smooth. ”You tell me.”

It took Kent a moment to realise what the tone of his voice meant. ”Oh, that’s for sure. But I meant the game.”

”If you don’t mind.” _If you want me to._

“I don’t.” _I do_.

”Then I will.”

“Awesome.”

They left the apartment together, morning practices, and had Kent been more of a hypocrite, he would’ve asked Seonghyun if he ever took a break.

There were no questions when he arrived, and there would be none as he left. Practice came and went, every tread of a skate, every flick of a stick laced with nerves and badly-hidden excitement. The rookies were the worst, always were, but there was no one immune. No matter how many years were behind them, a Stanley Cup final was -

A light bulb flicked off in Kent’s head. He grabbed a passing Swoops’ sleeve. ”We’re vets now.”

Swoops snickered. ”I think that’s pushing it, Parse. Wait ’til we’re thirty, would you?”

Thirty. It was only a few years off now. The big three-null.

There was not a moment of doubt in Kent’s mind that he’d still be playing for the Las Vegas Aces then, that he’d continue playing on the team until he retired. Perhaps that would be his downfall, his hubris. And perhaps it would be true. He had four more years to his contract.

Evening practice went little different. As the hours ticked by, each counting down to the puck drop, Kent felt his own excitement grow. He’d seen so many finals in his time, in the eight years the NHL had been every moment of his life, and yet the novelty never seemed to fade. He was still that nineteen year-old kid to whom the world was large and unknown and hockey was the only thing that mattered.

At least he had grown to look the monsters in the eyes. Learned not to succumb.

Before the match, the dressing room was buzzing, a low and even buzz that filled the air with electricity. Never enough to set the room ablaze, but enough to keep the hairs on their arms and legs standing straight out, even as they were methodically hidden by underarmour and padding and jerseys. One piece at a time. One breath. One tick of the clock.

Kent tied his skates with steady hands, third-to-last task before he had to leave and it all began. Around him, the other players were doing the same, putting in the last effort, the last glove, the last tightening of a helmet. Scrappy was in his corner, Carly at his side, laughing at something with Tady and one of the rookies. Evans was on the other side, looking at nothing and no one but his skates, a hard set to his otherwise soft jaw. His playoff beard had started to grow in. Closest to the door, Aidy was already doing some stretches before going into the goal, his first time starting in a Stanley Cup final. And Swoops was at Kent’s side, a steady, unwavering presence with a small smile on his lips, nervous, clearly, but just as excited as Kent. As all of them.

Drawing in a deep but subtle breath, Kent stood, felt half a dozen eyes on him as he pulled on his helmet, his gloves. Without glancing behind, to the side, anywhere but the door, Kent walked to the corridor. Heard the rest of the team stand behind him and follow, not out of respect, he didn’t _need_ respect, but because of tradition. In the beginning, in a hope of team unity, now in its success. Hard-worked and new, shaking and fragile, but a success nonetheless. And Kent had been there all the way, had seen it harden beneath his feet until they could skate across it. Together. Towards the future.

Light flooded Kent’s vision as he took the last steps into the main rink, quickly followed by the sight of hundreds and hundreds of spectators, all there to watch them kick the Penguins’ collective fucking asses. Black was in the majority, occasional yellow spots almost completely drowned out. Somewhere, Kent knew, Seonghyun was sitting. Not in the WAG section, not anywhere fucking near it, but somewhere. Perhaps Kent would see him during the game. Perhaps not. He’d still kiss him after the game, somewhere quiet and private, when they were done celebrating the win. Or mourning the loss. Whatever happened.

Behind him, the rest of the Aces trickled out from the tunnel, some taking their spots on the bench, others preparing for the first shift, the first minutes of the first period of the first game. Kent could feel them all behind him, each presence a strength and a weakness as his own, bringing to the team both and raising them all up by it.

In the corner of Kent’s eye, Burke walked towards the rink side, scanned the crowd or the ice or the other team or whatever the fuck else went through his head before a moment of truth. He glanced to the side, briefly caught Kent’s gaze and nodded, curt and short. A permission. An expectation. Respect. Or whatever the fuck else went through his head.

”Here we fucking go,” Swoops said, almost inaudible beneath the noise of the crowd, almost growing louder by the second. Bursting with preparedness for the game to start.

And it all disappeared. The second Kent’s skate hit the ice, stick at the ready and a smirk on his face that had long ago become a trademark, it was gone. The noise, the crowd, the players, Seonghyun, everyone watching. It was the same feeling as when he’d first held a hockey stick, the first time he’d ever shot a goal, the first time that piece inside of him that was irreparably tied to hockey had snapped into place. The moment he’d realised who he had to become. Who he already was and always had been.

He was Kent fucking Parson. And he was still burning.


End file.
